Better Strangers
by merlinmercury
Summary: Sam had been stabbed. Dean, desperate in the face of the medical bills, had turned to the drug lord Crowley. A year later and still unable to repay his debt, Dean Winchester is a dead man. That is, until Castiel, the son of a reclusive Russian billionaire, strides in and pulls him right out from under Alistair's knife.
1. Then Came the Last Days of May

Chapter titled after the Blue Öyster Cult song.  
Caution for torture scene.

* * *

Dean still had nightmares about Sam, collapsing in a heap in the mud, knife buried in his back. It had been a year, and Sam was fine now, but the feeling of watching his little brother's body sag, the memory of thick blood, _too much blood _on his hands as he held him—Dean would never escape that.

Especially not if Alistair had any say in the matter.

Dean had been desperate. He and Sam had just moved to yet another new town and he'd been looking for work—a professional job hunter, Sam often called him. Things had been much harder after the couple of years he'd spent on the inside, convicted of an assault in St Louis he hadn't committed. That still smeared across his record, Dean took whatever work he could get, when he could get any at all.

Then one night he'd pulled up outside their motel room just in time to see a tall guy dressed in khakis sprinting away with the small wad of cash Sam kept in his pocket, leaving his brother hunched over outside their door. That was when they'd gone from struggling to downright _screwed_.

He'd spent a sleepless night at the hospital, willing Sam to pull through, but after his brother's surgery dragged on for longer than he could keep himself awake, Dean knew they were in deep trouble. There was no way he could pay for the things Sammy needed, and there was _no way_ Sammy was going without.

It had felt like a stroke of genius, really, the idea of borrowing from Crowley. The drug lord, so-called 'king-of-the-street-corners', was rumored to enjoy the opportunity to lend out a bit, staking his claim on a few sorry souls in the process. Dean had spent a long few minutes staring at Sam's body, propped up awkwardly in the too-small hospital bed, before marching out into the night, determined. Better risk his life than let Sammy lose his outright.

He didn't have to go far before he found a brunette woman, dressed in black—one of Crowley's sellers. She gave him a year to pay the money back; not nearly enough time, but still more than some were given. Dean agreed. He had no choice, not really.

That had been the beginning of June—and now, as the end of May approached, Dean still hadn't scrounged anything close to half of what he owed. He was going to die.

Dean had more than enough proof to believe that the death threats were perfectly real. He'd heard the stories—people tortured until they gave up whatever valuable possessions they owned, people who could only pay with their lives, as chew toys for Crowley's sadistic attack dogs. Alistair was the one assigned to Dean. He'd been in touch.

Dean had tried to keep it from Sam, but Sammy'd always been too clever for his own good. He'd spent the last week searching frantically for other lenders, but had unsurprisingly come up with nothing. Dean's number one priority became not letting his little brother see how scared he was. Secretly, he considered ending it all with a swift bullet through the roof of his mouth—Alistair had promised he'd have him begging for that kind of mercy—but he couldn't do that to Sam. As long as there was the tiniest chance he could escape Crowley's grasp, Dean would stick around for his brother's sake. It was with Sam in mind that he burned each threatening letter as it turned up on the doorstep of whichever motel in whichever state, deleted the texts and the emails, and smiled through his terror like none of it had ever happened.

Dean awoke on the first of June astonished that he'd managed to sleep at all. The motel room was empty, Sam having left for work—a clerk position in a law firm in town. He wouldn't be back until later than evening. Dean had made no plans for the day, or any days after it; he was out of time. He flicked through the channels on the television set but nothing in particular caught his eye. Eventually he pulled on jeans and a jacket, slid his feet into his boots and headed out to find himself a bottle shop. If it was his last day breathing, he mused, then he might as well make the best of never getting to the hangover.

He never even made it across the parking lot to where his baby sat waiting.

Still somewhat groggy from waking, Dean hardly managed to fight back as a bag smothered his head in darkness and musty air, and several pairs of strong hands shoved him into what he assumed was some dodgy-looking van. His arms were wrenched back and tied at the wrists behind him, and his ankles were bound too before he even got a decent kick in. The floor of the van pressed hard against his shoulder and hipbone where he lay, and shoes nudged none too softly at his kidneys.

For all that he'd tried to prepare himself, Dean's heart still jackhammered in his ears and his throat still choked up with bile. This was it, then—the end of Dean Winchester. He wondered morbidly where they'd dump the body, wondered how much of him would be _left_ to dump.

The van chugged and lurched its way around street corners and Dean quickly gave up trying to mentally map its progress.

Finally it stopped altogether, and he was dragged down from the vehicle and led, stumbling, across several yards of asphalt. He heard a whiny garage door being rolled up, then down again after him. The ground beneath his feet became smoother; concrete. He was pushed down and his back met with a chair. His hands were roped tightly to its arms, his feet to its legs. Then the bag came off and he blinked against the dull white light that filtered into the warehouse through high windows, catching motes of dust floating in the air.

"Dean Winchester," said a jeering voice, somewhere behind him.

"Let me take a wild guess," he spat. "Alistair."

The speaker moved into Dean's peripheral vision. "Very good," Alistair's grin was shark-like. "Well, now that the introductions are all out of the way, I think we should really get started, eh Dean? I've been looking forward to this ever somuch."

Dean said nothing as he watched the tall, bearded man pull a trolley over from the edge of the room. Dean really didn't want to know what was under the sheet that draped over it—but of course, that wasn't an option.

Alistair uncovered his instruments with the flourish of a waiter at a fancy restaurant. The array of blades glinted in the light, some of them as long and wide as butcher's knives, some smaller and more jagged. Alistair chose one, inspecting it appreciatively. It was several inches long with a wooden handle and a malevolent curve to its tip. He turned to Dean.

"You know," he said, voice like grease, "I was hoping all along that you'd never find the money. Mister Crowley'd have liked it back, of course, but me… well, this is my favouritepart. It's not just about followed through on threats, walking the walk for the sake of business—_god_ no. Everybody needs a hobby—I'm just lucky; Mister Crowley indulges mine."

"Sadistic bastard," Dean scowled.

Alistair just laughed, wickedly gleeful. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Dean. I just wanted you to know that there's no use playing chicken with me. I'll do anything—and for you, I plan to do _everything. _I can't wait to get my fingers into the nice tender bits behind those lovely green eyes of yours."

The terror which had fed Dean's defiance was growing too rapidly, beginning to strip it away instead. Dean tried to keep his hands still, but his whole body trembled.

"That's the spirit," Alistair leaned in close enough for Dean to feel the stale-cigarette heat of his breath against his face. "I see you shiver with antici—" one rough hand bunched in Dean's shirt, holding it in place while the other guided the blade, hacking upward through the fabric until it reached his chin "—pation."

Dean let out a bark of laughter. "You're a little overdressed for that line." He wondered briefly if imagining Alistair in a Frank-N-Furter costume would help, like picturing a large audience in their underwear, or whether it would only serve to add a whole new dimension to the trauma. Probably the latter.

Alistair brushed aside the remnants of Dean's shirt and raked dirty fingernails down his chest. Then he set the knife's point to Dean's skin and traced each of the red scratch marks with a steady slice of pain. Dean tried not to react, but his molars ground through the inside of his cheek. He was fleetingly aware of the hot liquid trickling from the wounds before Alistair was tossing white powder over them and _holy hell it burned_ as the fine salt granules stuck to the weeping broken skin. Dean grunted as Alistair's palm smeared the bloodied salt across his torso, rubbing it deeper into the gashes.

"There now, we've prettied you up a bit, but there's still plenty of room for improvement. What should we do next?" Alistair stepped back, replacing the knife and humming to himself as his hand hovered over the selection of other tools. "I think we should do your nails," he decided, picking up a pair of pliers.

Dean discovered that swallowing had suddenly become very difficult.

"Mm, I can see you like that idea, don't you sweetheart?" Alistair was uncomfortably close again, stroking the closed pliers down the side of Dean's face. He touched the cold metal against Dean's lips. Dean could have sworn he felt his teeth quiver in his gums.

As Alistair's attention returned to Dean's hands, he balled them into tight fists, thumbs tucked inside. He felt the sharp split of skin as his nails dug into him palms, and regretted putting off trimming them.

"Oh, Dean, don't be like that. We haven't even begunyet. Open up," Alistair rapped Dean's knuckles, white with taut skin, hard with the pliers. He leaned across to retrieve the knife from his equipment tray, raising it to Dean's left eye. Its point came too close for Dean to focus on, hovering like a snake poised to strike, obstructed only by the thin membrane of his eyelid when he blinked. Blood dripped down the stinging front of Dean's body, cold sweat down the back. His eyes watered, saline beading at the corners. Alistair cut a fine line along the bone of Dean's eye socket, beneath his eye, the sensitive skin tearing too easily. He bared his teeth.

"How about you show me those nice long fingers before I get carried away, huh?"

A trade-off, then. God, _fingers or eyes_ was not a question Dean had ever wanted to ask himself. Reluctantly, he unfurled his left hand.

"That's the spirit."

Alistair's dirty hand grabbed Dean's, holding two of his fingers flat against the chair arm. Rough metal burrowed in underneath the nail of the first one, clenching up against its counterpart. Alistair tightened his fist around the red plastic-coated plier handles, and then pulled, agonizingly slow and steady, wiggling from side to side as he went. He laughed savagely as the nail came loose, leaving Dean's index finger a mess of bloodied quick. He dropped the nail on the dusty floor and ground it under his heel.

Away came the second and third fingernails, thumb and pinkie following close behind. Dean tried to muffle the sounds that rose in his throat, knowing they would be music to Alistair's ears.

"Very pretty," Alistair looked at Dean's bloodied hand appraisingly. "Let's give it a quick wash."

Alistair reached over to the second level of the trolley and removed a small bucket of water. He held it over Dean's injured hand and poured its contents in a steady stream. Dean shouted, a hoarse sound ripped from his lungs. _Not water_. His eyes brimmed as the acid burned the raw skin rawer.

The world was beginning to swim a little, a wavering soup of pain and dread. Half of Dean was resigned to the fact that he'd never get out of here, while the other half remained abuzz with frantic adrenaline, pulse pumping at a million miles an hour as he tried futilely to think of some way that escape might be possible. He glanced at the closed doors of the warehouse, each guarded by a pair of burly guys who, though Dean couldn't really see from where he sat, no doubt had guns strapped to their hips.

When he looked back up at Alistair, the man was holding an axe. "This here's Johnny," he said, stroking the flat side of the blade with affection.

The name triggered a flash of Dean's father's face before his eyes. He hadn't thought about John much during the few years since he'd died, but now Dean's defenses were falling apart and there wasn't much he could do to keep the memories at bay. Goddamn Alistair, weaseling his way into Dean's deepest sore spots without even knowing it. Dean had been about to finish his prison sentence when John had passed away—killed in a bomb blast over in Afghanistan. By that time, Dean hadn't heard from his old man in several months, hadn't seen him in even longer. John's letters had been short and blunt, and for all that he'd claimed otherwise, Dean knew in his heart that his Dad had never managed to fully believe he was innocent. That had hurt more than anything—more than being locked up, more than the fractures and bruises left over from the fights Dean had always seemed to find himself in the middle of while he'd been inside. Dean's Dad had been his idol, had taught him everything he knew, and Dean had given everything to try and please him, always trying to be perfectly upstanding, stoic and obedient. In the end he had still failed—even though the crime wasn't his, the shame had been, and that disappointment was what John took of his eldest son to the grave.

The edge of his hand erupted in a firework of pain as the axe severed the tip of his pinkie, and Dean was almost grateful for the distraction. The wooden handle of the axe collided hard with his cheek, once, twice, three times. Dean spat blood through his loosened teeth but it missed its target, splattering over the floor between his feet instead. Alistair's fist met his nose with a crunch.

"Are we having fun yet Winchester?" Alistair's face blurred before Dean's eyes.

"Fuck you," he growled, the words burbling through the metallic liquid that pooled in his mouth.

"We could try that," Alistair sneered, running a predatory gaze up and down the length of his body. Dean felt sick. His stomach heaved and he coughed bile, thickened with red, down his chin and into his lap. He felt filthy.

Suddenly there was a scraping sound, and Dean braced himself for whatever was coming. It took him a moment to recognise that the noise was coming from the door, which was being rolled upwards to let in a whole lot of bright light and the silhouette of a man. Dean wondered if it was Crowley himself, or just some other psycho ready to get his kicks sticking sharp objects through Dean's skin.

"Stop, Alistair," rumbled a low voice. The figure moved closer and Dean made out dark hair and a tan trench coat. The man wasn't terribly tall, but the way he held himself made him seem like the tallest in the room.

"And who do you think _you _are?" Alistair asked, but he let his axe hang down by his side all the same.

"I am the one who is here to inform you that Dean Winchester's debt has been repaid," said the man—and okay then, Dean thought, he was dreaming. "You are not to lay another finger on him. Please drop your weapon and step aside."

"Guards?" Alistair looked expectantly at the men by the door, but they did nothing to apprehend the trenchcoated stranger.

The man held up a suitcase. "I have made it worth their while not to let you proceed," he explained. "Now _stand aside_," he repeated. Dean felt himself shiver at the air of command in that voice. Whoever this person was, Dean got the distinct impression he could be scarier than ten Alistairs put together—which was really a terrifying thought.

Alistair's expression was murderous, but he obliged, backing away from Dean and placing the axe back on his trolley.

The man in the trench coat walked towards Dean, and Dean noticed that his eyes were blue. His head spun and there were about six pairs of eyes trained on him, all blue as the sky on a beach postcard, and a strong hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him, and then the lights and sounds were growing further and further away, and Dean was too tired to chase them anymore so he let them go and slipped back into himself where it was dark and there was nothing.


	2. Needle and Thread

Dean came to with no idea where he was and little clue as to how he'd come to be there. All he knew for sure was the aching of every part of him, drowning out the rest of the world, as if he'd been caught right in the centre of a huge roiling thunderstorm. His ears picked up a shred of sound, something like a moan of pain, which he realised a moment later must have come from his own throat. He tried to sit up.

"You would do well to remain still," said a voice, deep like gravel sinking in a bottomless lake. Dean felt sure he'd heard it somewhere before, but he couldn't place it.

He ignored the voice's suggestion and tried to push himself up to lean back on his hands. His left hand, which seemed to be wrapped in bandages, protested, pain flaring as though it had been skinned.

Oh. Yeah.

Gingerly, Dean lay back down on what he was becoming aware was a bed. A nice soft bed, in a room he had definitely never seen before in his life. The ceiling was white, with a border of carved patterns running around its edge. The walls were also white. Nothing was moldy or stained or cracked like the insides of crappy motel rooms always were. It occurred to Dean that he might be dead, and this might be the afterlife. Where else could he be that was so _white_?

"You're safe now, Dean," the voice advised him from somewhere out of sight. He strained his neck to get a better look around but still couldn't get a visual on the speaker. "We're in a hotel room at the moment. You'd be wise not to move; I haven't quite finished stitching up your wounds yet."

"Who are you?" Dean asked, his throat feeling dry and clogged. He coughed something foul-tasting into his mouth and made a face. Then a thought hit him— "_Where's Sam?"_

It all came flooding back with that sobering question. Dean remembered that he'd been taken by Alistair's men, remembered Alistair's foul grin as he painted his knife with Dean's insides. Remembered a stranger bursting in and telling him to _stop, _telling him that Dean's debts were cleared and he was saved. A man with a pale face and bright blue eyes. He wondered how long it had been—wondered whether Sammy has figured out he was gone and started worrying.

"It's a quarter past four in the afternoon," the voice explained, as though reading his thoughts. Dean heard what sounded like someone rummaging through a cupboard. A tap ran for a few moments before twisting off with a squeak. Sam usually didn't finish work until at least six or seven, so hopefully he hadn't called to check in and realised anything was amiss.

There were footsteps, and then the blue-eyed man stood before Dean, holding a bloodstained towel, a small bag and a bottle of water. He uncapped the bottle and offered it to Dean, gesturing at a sheet of painkillers in blister packaging on the bedside table.

"Who _are_ you?" Dean asked again after swallowing a few down. "And why did you save me?"

The man sat on the edge of Dean's bed—a king bed which would definitely make him even more loath to return to crappy motel rooms from now on—and looked at him with a serious expression. Thinking about it, Dean hadn't seen any other expression on his face so far.

"My name is Castiel Novak."

The stranger—_Castiel_, didn't elaborate.

"That's all I'm gonna get from you, huh?" he chuckled, then remembered the next most pressing matter at hand. "Do you by any chance have a phone I could borrow?"

Castiel handed him a sleek black cell, and Dean keyed in Sam's number with his right thumb. He held the phone to his ear and listened anxiously to each ring.

"Good afternoon, Sam Winchester speaking," came his brother's voice, amusingly formal in answering the unknown number. God, it hadn't really even been that long since he'd seen him, but it was so good to hear from Sammy again.

"It's me, bitch," he said brightly.

He heard a huff of laughter at the other end. "Oh. Jerk. What's up?"

"Well, don't freak out, but…" Dean trailed off, realising he hadn't exactly thought through what he was going to say. He opted for a band-aid approach. "Crowley's guys came 'round to the motel."

"What?" Sam yelped. "Dean, what's going on? Where are you?"

"I'm okay, calm down," he interrupted the stream of questions. "This guy came and got me out, told Crowley's dogs where to stick it. I'm with him now, in a room at—" Dean paused. "Where are we?" he directed the question to Castiel, who was watching him silently.

"The Waldorf Astoria."

"—the Waldorf Astoria," he finished. The words sounded ridiculous on his tongue—Winchesters didn't belong in luxury hotels! Not Dean, that was for sure.

"I'm on my way," said Sam, and the line went dead.

"Thanks," Dean passed the mobile back to its owner.

"It's no problem."

Dean reached absently to scratch at an itch on his chest, fingers finding a line of stitches. What Castiel had said about stitching him up sank in.

"If you're ready, there is one last section of your chest which would benefit from sutures."

"You talk funny," Dean thought aloud as he watched nimble fingers unzip the bag and take out a needle and thread. Castiel lead over him and unwrapped a bandage low on Dean's torso, revealing a cut, certainly not the deepest, but deep enough to warrant a bit of attention. Dean noted how delicate and even Castiel's needlework so far was—far better than any of the rough fix-up jobs he'd done on himself or Sam—and Dean had had practice, what with cutting himself up pretty well as a kid, mucking around with knives and tools, wrestling, playing sports. These looked professional. "Where'd you learn to do that?" Dean winced as the needle pierced his skin. He'd had so much worse that day alone that he felt slightly silly.

"I trained as a doctor," Castiel replied simply, remaining absorbed in the quick work he was making of the sutures. He reached down to pick up a bottle from the floor by the bed. It was clear glass with lines crisscrossing to form a diamond pattern. It was filled with transparent liquid, which Dean figured was probably vodka. Castiel splashed some of it onto the towel, before dabbing it against the cut. It stung, but the gentle hand which pressed the towel to his skin was remarkably comforting.

Dean wasn't sure exactly how you told someone you appreciated them saving your life and you kind of liked it when they put their hands on your unclothed body, so he just muttered "thanks."

"You're welcome," said Castiel, and he stopped for a moment to fix Dean with a blue stare and a small smile.

"Hey, do you mind if I have a sip of that?" he gestured to the vodka, and Castiel passed it to him with a nod.

"Not too much on an empty stomach," he warned. "I'll order you something from room service as soon as we're done here."

Dean took a swig, glad to let the taste and burn of alcohol mask the remnants of blood and sick which clung in his throat. Castiel's phone vibrated against the bedside table.

"Hello," Castiel answered it gravely. There was a pause. "I'll meet you in the lobby right away."

"Was that Sam?" Dean asked.

"Yes. I will go and meet him now, if you will wait a few minutes."

"'Course," Dean took another sip. And then maybe one or two more.

As he half-sat, half-lay on the bed, Dean felt more aware of his own aloneness than he had in a while. The large, white room seemed to open up around him, and he was so small, an insignificant character even in his own story. He set about building as thick a wall as he could between himself and his memories from that morning. It was impossible, though, to silence the flesh memory of tugging stitches and still-darkening bruises.

Another swig.

The door handle shook and Dean started, bracing himself for an intruder despite reason telling him it was only Castiel returning with Sammy. The door swung open and Sam's worried eyes immediately found his. Neither spoke for a beat.

"Sorry you had to leave work early."

"Shut up, Dean."

Dean watched as Sam's eyes wandered over the bloody stripes on his chest, made more prominent by the dark threads pulling them together.

"You look like crap," Sam offered a weak smile.

"Speak for yourself," Dean laughed. Thank god Sammy wasn't in one of his talking-about-feelings moods; Dean had been through enough today without having to endure any tearful heart-to-hearts.

"I have booked this room for the night, if you two would like to stay here," Castiel's voice sounded especially deep and scratchy when compared directly with Sam's. The frequency sent an odd shiver down Dean's spine.

Sam looked uncertain, his eyes silently asking Dean for advice. Dean would never be keen on the idea of staying in a strange hotel suite with a strange person who had, hours earlier, scared the pants off the guy who'd just ripped out half of Dean's fingernails. That said, who was to say Alistair wouldn't come back to finish what he started? Dean was scared, and he was sore—though he would only own up to the latter—and this bed was soft, and Castiel had done nothing yet but rescue Dean and put him back together.

"If that's okay," he answered. "I'll have to borrow a toothbrush though."

"Whatever you need can be brought to you without any trouble."

Dean's stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly.

Castiel took it as a request. "What would you prefer to eat, Dean?" He picked up the hotel phone, ready to dial room service.

Dean was _so _not accustomed to having room service. Hell, he was hardly used to eating the kind of stuff Sammy counted as 'proper food'.

"Uh… do they have burgers?" he floundered.

"I'll see to it that they do." Castiel took the phone and wandered out of the bedroom.

The moment he was gone, Sam turned to Dean with one of his many troubled expressions plastered to his face.

"He's a pretty guy," Sam said, taking Dean well and truly by surprise.

Dean blanched. "What?"

"He's a pretty guy," Sam repeated with a shrug, like it was nothing. Maybe it _was_ nothing to Sam, but it had always weighed heavily on Dean. Noticing people he shouldn't—noticing _men_—knowing all the while exactly what John would have to say about a son who swung that way. He'd hidden it like an unspeakable disease for so long that he'd actually begun to believe it was one. He'd set about bringing home enough women to remove any doubts his father might have had, and obscure any inadvertent lingering glances directed toward anyone John would disapprove of. It wasn't that Dean didn't like the women—because he _did_—just not women alone. John had never confronted him about it, but Sammy was nothing if not an observant little shit. Though he'd never confess as much, Dean was kind of glad Sam had figured it out. It was good having someone there to talk to, even if you didn't actually want to do much talking.

"I guess he is," Dean agreed cautiously. It wasn't like he hadn't noticed, but he'd been a little preoccupied with having his skin sewn back together to think much further into the matter before now.

"For what it's worth, I think he's noticed the same about you. Just… be careful," said Sam. "At least wait until I've had a chance to do some snooping. To call Alistair off like that, this guy must be _somebody_."

Dean nodded; he was well aware, of course. Trust didn't come easily to the Winchesters, and, dramatic rescue aside, Castiel had given them nothing much to work with. Dean noted that he really did hope the stranger turned out to be as good a guy as he seemed. He tried to dismiss the niggling optimism as gratefulness to the guy for saving his ass.

"Did he give you a full name?" Sam asked, pulling his laptop out of his work bag and logging in.

"Yeah—Castiel Novak."

Dean propped his weight up on his uninjured hand, swinging his legs around so he could hang them over the side of the bed and sit up straight. While Sam plugged away at his laptop, Dean reached for the vodka bottle and continued knocking back mouthfuls of its pleasant sting. He welcomed the buzz that was beginning to take the sharp edges off everything.

"What's that?" Sam eyed the bottle, one brow raised.

"Antiseptic," Dean said, by way of explanation.

"No, hang on—I think I've seen that bottle somewhere," Sam pouted, and turned back to his laptop. A minute later, he looked up again, a peculiar expression on his face. "That stuff costs a thousand dollars, Dean. The bottle's made of crystal."

Dean abruptly stopped drinking. What kind of person poured vodka worth a _grand _over a stranger's cuts and scratches? He rested the bottle back on the floor. What kind of person had vodka worth a grand in the first place?

"More money than sense, I guess," he murmured uncertainly.

"I'm not finding much about Castiel Novak, here," Sam sighed. "You got anything else?"

Dean thought back, combing through their few exchanges. "He said he was a doctor."

They were interrupted by Sam's ringing cellphone. Sam pulled it from his pocket and looked over the screen. "Work,' he said. "I'd better take this."

Sam left around the same moment Castiel reappeared.

"Room service will arrive shortly," he announced.

"Thanks," Dean's throat felt drier than it had a second ago, words thicker on his tongue. Now that Sam had gone and pointed it out, Dean couldn't miss the way that dark, mussed-up hair seemed to beckon, willing him to find out what it felt like between his fingers—couldn't miss the way those eyes lingered on him, mostly holding his gaze, but occasionally slipping down to his lips or further still. Dean reminded himself that he was covered in cuts and bruises; that was probably what Cas was looking at.

_Cas_. Dean pulled the shortened name out for inspection as soon as he realised he'd thought it. Three syllables were about two too long for any word you planned on saying often. Circumstances permitting, Dean decided he was not averse to saying that name very often indeed.

* * *

Apologies for the relatively short chapter length so far. My hope is that it will allow me to keep a more regular flow of updates coming; despite my best efforts, law school makes itself difficult to ignore. That said, the next chapter will be longer - I have quite a bit planned. And, of course, if you're reading this, thankyou!


	3. A Man of Wealth and Taste

Title lyrics from Sympathy For The Devil by the Rolling Stones.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Sam Winchester speaking," Sam pressed the phone to his ear as he left Dean's room.

"Hello Sam,' said a woman's voice at the other end. She sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place her. She was calling with a number from his work, at any rate. "My name's Ruby, I'm a junior partner." So _that _was where he knew the voice from. "I'm calling to let you know a paralegal position's opened up and somebody up there thinks you're the man for the job. I've been told to look out for you."

Sam was struck dumb. He'd never expected to get far, only having graduated from pre-law. There were plenty of law students out there, fourth and fifth year, all scrabbling for paralegal jobs.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked. He'd probably heard wrongly.

"You heard me right," Ruby went on, picking up on his disbelief. "You. Paralegal. You're already with us so you'll start right away. Come and find me in my office first thing tomorrow morning and I'll get you started. You're free to say thankyou."

"Um—yeah, thankyou," Sam stammered, then cursed himself for being so inarticulate. "I won't disappoint," he added.

"Good. See you tomorrow Sam." Ruby hung up, leaving Sam standing frozen with the phone in his hand. A smile crept slowly onto his face, as the realisation finally dawned. He wasn't just going to be running errands and answering phones anymore. He'd get to do research, proper legal stuff. He'd get a better paycheck, and the importance of that was fresh in his mind after seeing how Dean had paid their debts with skin and bone. For the first time since dropping out, Sam felt like he was going somewhere. He had to tell Dean about this, had to see the smile light up his brother's face right _now._

When Sam wandered back into the room, Castiel was perched on the edge of the bed, Dean's injured hand in his as he unraveled the bandages slowly. Dean flinched every so often, though Sam suspected it was partly just an excuse to move a little closer to the other man. Their faces were very close, but neither seemed uncomfortable with the proximity. Sam felt distinctly as though he were intruding, and for all that he wanted to make sure Dean didn't jump into anything that would only end in hurt, he couldn't be his brother's keeper. As far as Dean was concerned, lust was also a powerful anaesthetic, and Sam knew he was in bad shape; if Castiel could keep putting that shy smile on Dean's face, then Sam would let him until he had a good reason not to.

He ducked back through the bedroom door and found a couch to sit on, where he fiddled absently with his cell.

Paralegal. He smiled to himself; it was one step closer to actual lawyer.

His phone beeped at the arrival of a text message.

_Oh and by the way, party at NoviCorp Thursday night. I don't suppose you have a tux?  
- Ruby._

Sam stared. Maybe he needed to get some sleep?—Or maybe that was just the problem, and he needed to wake up? Something felt odd about this—it was all so fast. Sam desperately didn't want to look this gift horse in its mouth, though. Only the very high up were invited to fancy NoviCorp events; the firm was more or less a subsidiary of the part of that company run by Lucifer Novikov, one of the two sons who inherited what their legendary father had established. NoviCorp was multifaceted, tendrils reaching into virtually every market there was. Lucifer largely took care of legal matters, closing multi-billion dollar deals, pulling in major clients, engineering takeovers. He was infamous; conscience didn't seem to play any part in his decisions—only profit. It was said that the list of clients Lucifer had worked with included War, Famine, Disease and Death themselves; corrupt governments, war criminals, drug corporations trying to cover up disastrous mistakes—whoever wrote the biggest check. He'd recently spent several years in prison, convicted of fraud and tax evasion, though Sam couldn't fathom why one of the world's richest men would bother cheating for money. Notoriety aside, Lucifer was feared for his sheer skill. No matter what the case, if you went up against Lucifer, you didn't come out on top. The press barely knew what to write about him—more than one budding journalistic career had been flushed away with a few unwisely phrased comments.

Sam wondered whether Lucifer Novikov would be at the event. He wasn't sure he actually wanted to _meet _the man, but to catch a glimpse would be surreal.

_No, I don't. Where should I go to get one? _he typed in response to Ruby's message. Thursday was _tomorrow_, he realised, and what with Dean, and starting his new job, he had virtually no time. Sam saved Ruby's number and waited.

She replied quickly. _You can rent one, I'll take you to a place tomorrow. It can come out of your next paycheck._

No need to buy a whole fancy outfit, and no need to dip into his already-strained bank account until more had been added to it; it was too easy. _Great, thanks _he texted back.

There was a knock at the door, and Castiel emerged from the bedroom to answer it. Room service. Sam was still astonished by the fact that he and Dean had somehow ended up in a place with room service in the first place. Castiel struck him as the kind of person who had so many secrets even he'd lost touch with a few of them. He seemed earnest in his concern for Dean, but there was also a strange rigidity about him; he spoke so formally, like he couldn't turn it off, stood stiffly like he'd never stretched the starch from his limbs. Sam would be keeping an eye on him.

Sam lay back, letting himself sink into the soft lounge chair. He could get used to it here. He wasn't so sure about his brother. They'd only be here a night anyway; most of their belongings were back at the motel and they were expected to check out the next morning. Sam wondered if they could find a more permanent place here now that he had the opportunity to do better work. He hoped so—even a dingy rented apartment somewhere was better than a place that wasn't remotely theirs.

Sam left early the next morning. He'd slept well on the hotel bed, with its thick mattress and crisp, clean sheets. He put on his shirt from the previous day—he'd change it when he went to pick up their belongings at the motel—and headed out to the kitchen area to find a drink of water. As he passed the main living area he noticed a body curled up on one of the couches. It was Castiel. Sam was immediately struck by a pang of guilt; he'd assumed that when the man offered him the second bedroom he'd had somewhere to sleep himself. Sam had been too overwhelmed by it all even to ask and make sure. Castiel looked very small, huddled there beneath a blanket, and Sam was again completely mystified by him—who invited strangers into their upmarket hotel room, and then slept on the couch themselves? Sam crept past as quietly as he could so as not to rouse him.

He drove back to the motel, changed into fresh work clothes and loaded everything into the car. After dropping the keys back at reception he returned to the hotel, where he left the car; Dean would want to have her in case he needed to get out of the fancy rooms for a while, and the location was only a few blocks from the building Sam worked in. He walked briskly, invigorated as he breathed in the chilly morning air. He picked up a flat white on his way.

When Sam arrived at the firm, he took the elevator to level seven, where Ruby's office was. His stomach rolled a little with nerves, and though he told himself it was silly to be anxious he wasn't quite convinced. He found Ruby sitting in her black leather chair, sipping from a coffee cup and reading something on her computer screen.

"Morning," he said, standing at the door and attempting not to be awkward. It was times like these that his limbs felt too long for him to wield and he wished he could shrink, blend into a crowd of average-sized people.

Ruby looked up and smiled. "Sam. Have a seat."

He sat in the chair opposite Ruby's desk, and she shut her laptop to focus her attention on him. She was beautiful—dark eyes and full lips, long brown hair which, when he thought back, Sam remembered had been dyed blonde when he'd first seen her moving around the office. He tried not to think about any of those things. He was here for _work_—and at any rate, Ruby was way out of his league.

"So," Ruby clasped her hands together, "you excited for tonight?"

"Yeah," Sam answered. That was one part of the confusing cocktail of emotions he was feeling, sure.

"Nervous?" Ruby continued.

"That too," Sam said with a hesitant chuckle.

"So you should be. This is a big deal, Sam. _I'm_ a small fish in that pond."

"Uh, not to sound… ungrateful—not at all—but if that's the case, why on earth am I going to be there?"

Ruby looked at him for a moment, and Sam wondered if there was something on his face, or if he'd said something wrong, or his hair was a total mess. There hadn't been much wind on his walk, so he had figured it would be fine.

"You'll be my date," said Ruby cheerfully. _That'll be the day_, Sam couldn't help but think. "There's someone I know who wants to meet you. I told him I'd make sure you were there."

Sam had no idea who would be at the party, but he did know that they'd be important, probably rich, certainly powerful, and, in being those things, utterly intimidating. Which of them might be aware of his existence Sam couldn't imagine. He was beginning to wonder whether this was really a good idea at all.

"Don't you have a—a partner or something, that would want to go with you?" Sam asked lamely.

Ruby just laughed, rising from her seat and pulling her blazer and handbag off the coat rack in the corner of the room. "Nope. I've always considered myself married to my work—it's how I got here so young. My partner is my partnership here. Now, shall we?" She made for the door, and Sam followed her out.

They found a tuxedo which fit Sam reasonably. It was a little loose in places, but his height made it difficult to find a perfect fit at short notice. If he had the time and the money, he could get one tailored to his measurements—but he didn't, so he'd make do. Ruby seemed pleased enough with it, eyeing Sam up and down appreciatively as he pulled aside the change room curtain.

"You do scrub up well, Winchester," she said. "Now take it off, we're going to lunch."

That was how Sam ended up at a restaurant with a napkin in his lap and three sets of cutlery, eating a side salad because it was the cheapest thing on the menu. He crunched on a piece of tomato and washed it down with a gulp of mineral water. Across the table, Ruby cut dainty pieces off an enormous, very rare steak. She sipped red wine from a large glass.

"This is gorgeous," she said, breathing in the wine's scent. "Try some."

Sam looked at the glass being passed to him. By his boss. Was he supposed to drink on the job? He assumed they were kind of on the job—the whole day had been confusing, honestly. He was fairly certain that whatever the situation was, drinking wine from his boss' glass was probably not the way to go. He could see the faint lipstick mark and little drips just down from the rim where Ruby's lips had been a moment earlier, and tried not to wonder whether he could inconspicuously angle the glass so as to drink from that same spot.

"I, ah," he fumbled for the words, "I'm fine—"

"It's okay, you won't get in any trouble, Sam," said Ruby, with a sly smile. "As your boss, however, I may be concerned by your refusal to be cooperative…"

Sam took the glass by the stem and held it up, nose hovering just inside the rim. It smelled good, _really _good, nothing like the cheap clean-skin reds he'd drunk at home or at school. He took a small sip and was immediately overcome by the flavour; rich and strong and deep, like there were a thousand things there, each one begging to be pulled out and turned over individually on his tongue. He took another sip, trying to catalogue the way it tasted at first, then after holding it in his mouth a moment, then as he swallowed it. One more, longer pull and he might have it pinned down—

"Easy there tiger," Ruby laughed gently, bringing Sam back from his reverie.

"Sorry," he said, hurriedly placing the glass back on the table between them.

"Hey, don't apologise—I asked you to. What did you think of it?"

"Very good," Sam replied, savouring what remnants of the taste still clung to the inside of his mouth. "Best wine I've had."

Ruby chuckled. "Really? Oh sweetie, we have some serious wine tasting to do."

The remainder of the day was spent doing very little; Sam moved his things to a small desk close to where Ruby's office was located, then Ruby sent him off early with instructions to wash his hair. It wasn't at all what Sam had expected, but he figured that after the NoviCorp party was over things would fall into a more comfortable pattern of leafing through stacks of books and folders, printing, filing and whatever else needed doing. Those things he knew how to do—wearing tuxedos and drinking expensive cabernet sauvignon, not so much.

"Go home, freshen up," Ruby had shooed him out of the office. "I'll pick you up at seven thirty. What's your address?"

Sam had been uncertain for a moment, before telling her he'd be waiting outside the Waldorf Astoria. Ruby had raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm just staying there with a friend," Sam had clarified.

"Not a female friend, I hope," she had joked, but something told him it was more pointed than that. If he hadn't known better than to suspect his boss—his _really attractive _boss—was flirting with him...

"No, no," Sam's answer was perhaps just a little too hastily.

"Alright," Ruby had smiled at him, reaching up to brush a piece of lint from his jacket. "I'll see you tonight then, Winchester."

Now, Sam stood on the footpath in the frigid evening air as a shiny black car pulled up to the curb next to him. A door opened, and there was Ruby, wrapped in a black satin dress with fur draped over her shoulders, lips a few shades shy of arterial blood and eyes smoky black. Red gems glinted at her earlobes. She shifted across to the other side, patting the vacant seat beside her with a delicate, red-nailed hand. Sam tried and failed not to stare.

"Get in before you ogle, dumbass, it's cold," she said, but grinned and made a show of ogling right back. "You're looking quite the handsome devil, aren't you? I'm a miracle worker."

Sam laughed, and tried to pull his gaze away from the hollows of her collarbone, the dip down between her breasts in the deep valley of the gown's neckline. He succeeded in moving it only as far as her lips, wide and soft-looking as they were.

Sam thought briefly back to the scene he'd found upon returning to Castiel's hotel room that afternoon—Dean stretched out on the couch watching the second _Back To The Future_ movie with a bowl of wedges, doused in chilli sauce and sour cream, their curious host sitting in one of the other chairs staring at the screen as though he'd never seen a film before. Sam hadn't missed the way that Castiel's eyes flickered towards Dean every so often. Dean took his turn at staring, too. Sam could probably have joined them for the rest of the movie and still have had time to get himself ready, but Dean had looked so at ease in Castiel's presence, sneaking glances and crunching crispy seasoned potato that Sam let them be for fear of disrupting the equilibrium. He found tubes of hotel-brand shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom, and washed his hair slowly and thoroughly instead.

Just before he'd left, Sam had ducked past to let Dean know he would be out late.

"Hey Dean," he'd tried to make it quick and casual, but as soon as he came into his brother's line of sight Sam knew he had some explaining to do.

"Is that a _tux_?" Dean's nose wrinkled.

"Uh—yeah. I have a work thing. I got a promotion."

Dean grinned at the news, just like Sam had imagined he would. "That's great Sammy—knew you'd make your way up in the world sooner or later," he paused, eyeing Sam's outfit again. "So where are they taking you in that penguin suit, the zoo?"

"NoviCorp's hosting a party, my boss wanted me to come along—" Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket. "Speak of the devil. Bye, Dean."

Sam nodded a quick goodbye to Castiel too. He noticed an odd expression on his face, a flicker of something akin to worry, even fear. He wasn't sure it concerned him, until Castiel spoke:

"Be careful." They were low muttered words and they seemed to hold something serious, Sam just didn't know what that might be.

"Call if you need me to come rescue you," Dean added as Sam was halfway out the door.

It was Castiel's words which swam around in his skull as he sat in the car with Ruby. It could be a clue in the puzzle of who the mysterious man was, that he might know the people who would be at the party, might have some concept or even experience of their capacity to be dangerous.

"We're here," Ruby broke the silence.

Sam opened the door and extracted his limbs from the car, then held it open for Ruby as she slid out and up onto what Sam noticed were exceptionally high heels. She was still small beside him, but the shoes offered her some height advantage. She took his arm.

The party was lavish, but not enormous. Waiters carried trays of champagne flutes, and diamond-encrusted women in slinky dresses held the arms of men with hard eyes. Sam's anxiety grew as he saw there were few enough people in the room that his presence was being noted.

Sam took a drink and sipped at it, wondering what he could do to diffuse the awkwardness. He looked over to the corner of the room where a pianist ran his fingers up and down they keys of a white baby grand in a flurry of Mendelssohn.

Before long a woman approached them. She was tall with light hair and gray eyes, and was dressed in silver with strands of what Sam sincerely hoped weren't _all diamonds_ dripping down the pale skin of her neck.

"Ruby, darling," the blonde bared a set of teeth that were the stuff of whitening-strip advertisements.

"Lilith," Ruby replied, stepping up to kiss the air beside the woman's cheek. "It's so good to see you again."

"And this must be the young Mr. Winchester I've been told to keep an eye out for," Lilith turned the full force of her gaze on Sam, and in that moment he was absolutely convinced that not only was every stone decorating her person entirely real and hideously valuable, but she had many more where they came from. There was something in the way she looked down on him even from his own shoulder height, the way she seemed _too _at home in strappy stilettos, false lashes and an opulent gown snugger than her skin.

"Sam Winchester's the name, yes," he confirmed. Why this woman should know or care remained beyond comprehension.

"My husband is eager to meet you Sam; if you'll follow me I'll introduce you to him now."

The pieces finally fell into place when Lilith tapped on the elegantly-jacketed shoulder of a tall, ash blond figure. Sam knew the face he would see even before the man turned around to fix cold blue eyes on Lilith, then Ruby, before settling them at last on him. Sam should have recognised the woman as Lilith Novikov.

"Sam Winchester, this is my husband Lucifer Novikov—you may be familiar with the name. Lucifer, this is Sam."

Sam was frozen. Lucifer—_Lucifer Novikov _of all people—extended a hand, and his brain eventually got word to his own hand that shaking was the appropriate response. Lucifer's grip was iron, even stronger than Sam could have imagined; it was a handshake which asserted dominance much like a gun to the temple, and Sam had no choice but to wait until Lucifer decided they were done and released him. A smile twitched on Lucifer's lips, but stayed well clear of his piercing stare.

"Mr. Novikov," Sam found the words to greet him with, not even caring how apparent his awe was.

"Please," Lucifer let Sam's hand go and waved dismissively, "Mr. Novikov is my father. Call me Lucifer."

Lilith stepped in, waving an empty champagne flute. "Ruby, we've so much to catch up on. Come with me to find another drink?"

Ruby nodded, swept a light hand of encouragement over Sam's back. "I'll leave you two to talk business," she said, and then she was trailing after Lilith and he and Lucifer were alone.

"So, Sam." Lucifer's smile was more frightening than any scowl could possibly be. "I hear you're quite the up-and-comer. I'd like to offer you the opportunity to fast-track that process."

Sam tried to think of a time in his life when he'd been more confused. Nothing came to mind.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not sure what you mean," he said.

"A promotion," Lucifer sounded like he was enjoying this. Playing with his food.

"I was just promoted yesterday," Sam struggled to keep his sentences coherent.

"Another one, then."

"Wha—_why_? My boss only just—"

Lucifer cut him off. "Your boss is trying to hitch a ride with you to the top. I'm sure you think it's the other way around, Sam, but it isn't. Trust me."

_Trust me. _Sam rolled the words around in his head and wondered what on earth he was supposed to do with them. Trust Lucifer Novikov, despite what he knew of the man's reputation? The thing was, Lucifer was remarkably upfront about everything he did; he made very few excuses for his actions, never bothered trying to conceal unpopular truths. His words were intimidating, but beneath that was something which struck Sam as sincerity. He wasn't sure if he should trust Lucifer but, to his surprise, he was beginning to realise that he _wanted _to.

Sam snatched another drink from a passing waiter and took a lengthy sip.

Lucifer took his silence as a cue to continue. "I happen to be in the process of seeking out an assistant; someone to help me manage my personal affairs—work in particular, naturally. A paralegal exclusive to my purposes, if you like. You don't know any paralegals, do you?"

Sam's champagne was already gone. He stared at it in dismay.

"Think carefully about it, Sam. I want you, and I like to get what I want."

"Why me?" the words stumbled out of Sam's mouth before he could properly consider them.

"You're the perfect candidate," Lucifer explained easily. "I know all about you Sam Winchester. Outstanding grades in school, but you dropped out just before you made it to Stanford. Travelling around the country with your ex-con brother; that near-death experience last year; Dean's little run-in with that lowlife Crowley."

Sam stiffened. It made perfect sense that Lucifer would have access to whatever information interested him—but the uncomfortable feeling of having been watched which crept through him at the thought was hardly tempered by that logic.

"I'm after raw potential, Sam. If it matters a great deal to you, I can have a part-time place at Stanford taken care of for you," he went on, like it wasn't anything, "but there are a thousand smart young lawyers out there, none of them with the worldly experience you've had—that drive that comes from digging yourself out of the dirt. You've got it all Sam, and I've got to have you. Consider my offer."

Sam nodded dumbly.

"My wife will get my personal contact details to you via Ruby." With that, Lucifer turned on his heel and made his way through the crowd, which parted before him, a Red Sea of glamorous dresses and well-tailored suits.

Sam occupied himself with another glass of champagne and a small canapé whose flavour he barely paused to consider.

Before long Ruby was back at his elbow, and Sam was as grateful for a familiar face as he had ever been.

"Let's get out of this circus for a minute," she said, tugging on his arm, and he followed her out of the room and down a quiet corridor until the party was almost completely out of earshot. "So did he offer you a job?" she probed, with the satisfied smirk of someone who doesn't really have to ask at all.

"Yeah," Sam breathed, the realisation sinking in just a little further. It would be some time, he expected, before he'd manage to truly come to grips with what had just occurred.

"I _knew_ it. Who could resist that Winchester charm?" Ruby leaned in, and Sam became acutely aware of the wall behind him. She put out an arm, pressing her palm to the plaster beside Sam's chest and resting her weight against it. She took another step forward, her face now looming so close that Sam found his whole body pressed up against the wall in a reflexive attempt to conserve the tiny distance between them. He tried not to notice the heat of her breath ghosting over the skin of his neck, as she looked up at him with dark eyes.

"What—what are you—" he tried to ask, but Ruby put a finger to his lips. At the touch, every nerve in Sam's body seemed to sit up and pay extra attention. The air was suddenly very warm, the lighting in the hallway pleasantly dim.

"Shh," Ruby whispered, lips grazing the sensitive skin of Sam's neck, just beneath his jaw. "Don't fight it, Sam. I know you've thought about it too." Her lips trailed up towards his chin, and he breathed in the floral shampoo scent of her hair. Warmth pooled in his stomach, but along with it was a growing sense of uncertainty.

"Mmnh—no, I can't," Sam turned his head to the side, rebuffing Ruby's efforts to move upwards to his mouth.

"What's wrong?" she asked, sounding half hurt and half impatient. "Is it that there's someone else?"

"No," Sam muttered.

"Then what's wrong? Is it that I'm your boss, and we shouldn't? I'm not even older than you, you know," she whispered, mouth moving against the shell of his ear. "I skipped three whole years in school, made the right connections and beat all those other caffeinated drones in suits to the partnership because _I_ was the _best_. You're modest about it, Sam, and that's cute, but deep down I think you know it too—you're better than the rest of them. I can see it, even if they don't just yet."

Sam couldn't suppress a shiver as a tongue ran lightly up the edge of his ear. He wrapped an arm around her, fingers splayed out to press into her back, and heard every hitch in her breaths loud and heavy. Ruby pulled away from his ear and put a hand behind Sam's head, lacing fingers in his hair, pulling his face in to meet hers. The kiss was deep immediately, quick and a little rough as Sam fought to turn his reservations into warm open-mouthed presses. He could taste alcohol faintly on Ruby's tongue as it twined with his own, ran over his lips and darted between them. Ruby moaned softly into his mouth and Sam hummed in response, only half conscious of the sounds he was making.

Breathless, they broke apart and Sam took in the sight of his boss with her lipstick smudged, the careful curls loosening and falling from her hairdo. _His boss. _His chest tightened as he remembered exactly why he wasn't meant to be doing this. Unbidden, Lucifer's words filtered through the haze of his mind, surprisingly sharp and clear. _Your boss is trying to hitch a ride with you to the top_. _Trust me._ He looked down at Ruby, and hated the way the accusation seemed to fit. Why now? She had passed right by him without a word enough times to show she wasn't interested—until he'd received her phone call, and everything had changed. There was no conceivable reason to promote him, aside from Lucifer Novikov's inexplicable interest in him.

"I'm going to say no," he said.

"What?" Ruby muttered, leaning forward to kiss his neck again.

"To Lucifer," Sam explained. "I'm going to say no to him."

Ruby pulled back, smile falling abruptly away. "_What_? Sam, you don't want to do that. This is _more _than just a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This is _biblical_, babe. I didn't bring you here so you could _throw away _the chance to be _Lucifer's _right-hand man."

Her anger, poorly veiled, was enough. Sam pushed her hands away from him and stepped aside, leaving her propped against the empty wall. He laughed scornfully at himself for even beginning to believe it. Ruby had told him herself that she was quick to climb the ladder—and right now he was the perfect rung. The warm buzz of his blood was beginning to run colder.

"You're just using me," he said, even and matter-of-fact.

"Hey, no, Sam—" Ruby began, but he could see that she was lying. Her falseness was so clear to him now that he felt like twice the fool for ever missing it in the first place.

"Don't."

Sam left the NoviCorp building and hailed a cab back to the hotel. Every moment the tuxedo seemed to grow stiffer and tighter, choking and binding him, and the memories of Ruby's touches made his skin feel dirty.

He opened the door and stepped inside as noiselessly as possible, only to find Dean awake and waiting up for him. Some sort of game show flashed on the TV screen.

"You're back early," he said. "Rich snobs couldn't beat my company, eh?"

"Right," Sam aimed for sarcasm but ended up with more of a weary sigh.

"So, who was she?" Dean smirked.

"Who was who?" Sam threw him the best I-don't-know-what-you're-on-about face he could muster and wondered tiredly how his brother had known.

"Don't look at me like that—there's lipstick on your neck, genius. You gonna see her again?"

The last think Sam wanted was to think, let alone talk about having to see Ruby's face at work first thing the next morning.

"I need a shower," he answered instead. "Goodnight Dean."


	4. Closet Chronicles

Chapter named after the Kansas song.

* * *

Daylight streamed in through pale blinds and eased Dean out of the best sleep he could remember having. It took him a moment to process his surroundings and recall where he was.

Hotel; safe. Cas.

He wondered what time it was—and whether room service would have any issues with bringing him an entire plate of crispy bacon. He pulled himself out from under the comfy blankets and wandered out of the room to see if Cas was up yet.

He wasn't. No, Cas was lying on the couch with a blanket draped roughly over him, a cushion for his pillow.

"Dean?" a groggy voice asked, eyes opening slowly to look up at him.

"What the hell?" Dean asked, his anger surprising even himself. He'd had a spare big, fluffy pillow on his bed all night, and the guy whose bed it actually _was _was out here without a proper bed at all.

"What?" Cas sat up, stretching his neck out with a grimace.

"You slept on the couch!" Dean gestured in frustration to the scene in general. "This is your place! You're sleeping in a bed tomorrow night and that's final."

"You're not a morning person," Cas observed wryly.

Dean grunted. "Coffee?" he asked.

"I would appreciate some caffeine right now, yes. May I suggest we go out to find some?"

"Sure thing Cas," Dean agreed. Some fresh air would do him good.

He realised after a moment that a pair of blue eyes were looking at him a tad incredulously.

"What did you call me?" Cas asked.

_Oh_. He'd thought the nickname to himself, but he hadn't said it aloud before. Oops.

"Sorry, I just, you know, shortened—"

Cas just smiled softly, seeming almost pleased. "It's quite alright Dean," he said.

Dean left Cas to get dressed and went back to his bedroom—_Cas' _bedroom, actually, he reminded himself—to pull on his jeans and one of the clean tops Cas had given him. It was just a plain black t-shirt, a bit snug on him, but it would hide any stains if his stitches pulled relatively well. Sam had said he would bring their things around in the Impala before work, so Dean planned to pick up a jacket on their way out.

He came back out to find Cas pulling on his usual tan coat.

"What's with the trench, man? The whole outfit, you look like a… a tax accountant, or something," he blurted out. It was true that Cas dressed weirdly—he seemed to do most things weirdly. By no means did it mean that Dean didn't find the tax accountant outfit appealing on Cas. Maybe off him, too, but Dean was going to try very _hard_ not to think about that right now, with Cas right there in front of him.

"Accounting was once my profession, as a matter of fact," Cas replied.

"Huh?" Now Dean was confused. "I thought you said you were a doctor?"

Castiel shook his head, picking up his wallet from the table and then moving towards the door. He kept speaking as he went; "I trained to become a doctor when I was younger. I did very little actual work as one. I then took up accounting at a firm where I had connections. I am not currently in work, however."

Doctor, accountant… how had Dean managed to surround himself with brainiacs? There had always been Sammy, excelling despite all the circumstances doing their utmost to hold him back, but now that there was Cas too, it was becoming a pattern. Dean knew was more like John than he was like Sam, and he sometimes regretted that. John had done what he could, Dean knew that, but in the end he could only cope with the help of the purpose afforded by the army. It was that or the bottle, when he was home. Dean had had to be okay with second-best from a very young age.

And yet here was Cas, holding the door open and waiting for him with a look in his eye that made Dean feel like he was being _seen. _Cas had risked his life for him before they'd even _met, _and Dean was damned if he knew what he could possibly have done to deserve someone like that. Now that he was here, though, Dean was overcome by the desire to hold on as tightly as he could, for as long as Cas would have him. Maybe, he thought hopefully, if he could keep himself from screwing this up, someone would stick around for once.

"Who are you, really?" he asked as he and Cas waited for the elevator to arrive.

"I am Castiel Novak," Cas replied. And, well, duh.

"I know that part, stupid," Dean shook his head. "It's about all that I _do _know. I mean, what's your story? Where are you from, who are your family and all that? Sam said that bottle of booze you cleaned me up with the other day was worth a thousand bucks. You can't blame me for wondering, can you?"

Cas was silent, and Dean instinctively knew he'd overstepped. The questions hung there as the elevator doors opened with a ding and they both moved inside. Actual elevator music played awkwardly in the background.

"Russia." It was quiet, so much so that Dean almost doubted he had heard it.

"What about Russia?" He asked, his own voice suddenly low as well.

"It's where I'm from. Where I grew up."

"Okay." Dean was a little thrown by that one. The man's American accent was impeccable. "I wouldn't have guessed that," he admitted.

"The vodka was from my brother Gabriel," Cas continued, and Dean took note of each piece of new information, filing it under the new, growing tab in his head labeled _Cas. _"He lives in Sweden. I receive a bottle of something and a box of chocolates for my birthday each year, but beyond that we have had no communication for the past decade."

Dean tried to decide which part of that he ought to pick at first.

"If it was a present, why'd you go pouring it over my scratches?" was what he went with.

"I don't drink," Castiel replied easily.

So, Brother Gabriel was not at all with the times where Cas was concerned. Dean knew what it was like when your family left you behind, forgot all the important dates and facts and what you did and didn't like. Ten years, though—that was a hell of a long time not even to _speak._

"So you have a brother. Any other siblings?" he pressed. They were walking along the street now, though Dean paid little attention to where he was going; he just trailed after Cas, let himself be distracted by the strong square of Cas' shoulders, the pieces of his story he was telling in that gravelly voice. Dean had a terrible feeling that Cas could talk about dead babies, or hating Zeppelin and classic cars, and Dean would still wish the sound were a thing he could reach out and stroke, still feel it rumble somewhere in his chest, altogether too close to his heart to be safe.

"Yes," came the answer to Dean's question, but Cas didn't elaborate. "I am not close to my family anymore."

Cas turned to walk into a small coffee shop, and Dean went with him. He said nothing as Cas ordered a long black, then stepped in to ask for a flat white for himself. Cas paid and Dean wondered if there was any point even pretending to try reimbursing him. They took seats at a small table in the far corner.

"What about you, Dean?" Cas asked once they were seated, fixing the full weight of his attention on him.

"What about me?"

"Your story. Your family. I would like to learn about these things."

Dean snorted. "There's, uh, not much worth knowing," he explained.

"Tell it anyway?"

Dean nodded, hesitant as he tried to think back to the last time anyone had asked him about himself and actually appeared to give a damn. He couldn't remember one, couldn't quite figure out what things he wanted to say or leave out.

"My Mom died when I was a kid—house fire. My Dad was convinced it was something he'd done—left a blanket too close to a radiator, or left the burners on the stove pumping out gas—the story mostly depended on the day and the drink. He'd been in the army before he married Mom, and he rejoined afterwards, so we travelled almost all the time. When he went away he'd leave us with my uncle Bobby, but by the time I got to high school he'd just fix us up with some cash and leave us wherever was cheapest, and he'd tell me to watch out for Sammy." Dean paused as a waitress set their coffees on the table, and suddenly became conscious of how much he'd said. "Like I told you before, there's not much to know," he finished.

"On the contrary," Cas picked up his cup and took a sip, eyes closing as he focused on the taste. He looked back up at Dean again. "Thank you for confiding in me. I understand that family is not always an easy subject on which to speak."

Cas looked so genuinely happy to be there talking to him, listening to him, that Dean had to tell him it was okay, had to smile back, had to start believing his own words because of the way they lit up those blue eyes. Dean wondered if Cas was lonely; he didn't seem to have anyone, and if he didn't have any real ties with his family… well, Dean couldn't imagine being _completely _without family. He had Sammy, after all.

Dean opted for a change of subject before anybody started braiding anybody else's hair.

"When you got me out," he said, "you said my debt had been paid." He looked to Cas for confirmation; an infinitesimal nod of the head told him he hadn't just imagined it in the hazy nightmare of blood loss. "What did you mean by that?"

"I meant precisely what I said," Cas tilted his head to one side slightly, a picture of confusion which Dean had to admit was kind of cute. His dark eyebrows furrowed. "Crowley's money was returned to him. What is it that you do not understand?"

Dean hadn't been sure, but now that he was, the same kind of madness he'd felt upon discovering Cas on the couch that morning set fire to the place where he bottled up all his guilt, shoved it down along with gratefulness so deep he could only express it as hostility. He threw it, a Molotov cocktail, at the man across the table.

"God_damn _it,Cas_,_" Dean growled, unable to meet his eyes. "You can't just go around doing shit like that for people. What am I supposed to do now?"

Poor Cas just seemed completely lost, but the part of Dean calm enough to explain to him that he just couldn't bear to let himself be beholden to people like that was being smothered beneath too many layers of far less coherent feelings.

"I paid Crowley the money out of my own funds," explained Cas, like maybe Dean didn't understand that—like it wasn't just the problem.

"I _know _that," Dean said forcefully—a little too forcefully, judging by the wary glances now directed toward him by the café's other patrons, and the brief, uncomfortable lull of the place which followed his outburst. "I get that part, alright. What I don't get is _why_ you'd do something like that, for someone like me—or how the _hell _I'm supposed to make it up to you! I couldn't get the money for Crowley, and I won't be able to get it for you either."

"Dean." Cas' voice cut through his confused tirade. "It was never my intention to make you uncomfortable. All that I required in return for my money was the assurance that another innocent soul would not be lost to Crowley; no quantity of paper or metal could be of more value to me than knowing I have been able to help in that capacity. Please understand, Dean, that I too have gained from this exercise; I have helped. And I have had the opportunity of meeting you."

"Well excuse me if it seems like you drew the short straw there," Dean muttered, unable to throw his moodiness off completely. The urge to smile crept up on the edges of his mouth, though; he was glad to have met the strange, sort of unearthly person who sat before him, too. He was happy to be _alive, _happy to have been fixed up without racking up even _more _hospital bills, freaking thrilled that Crowley wouldn't be out for his blood anymore—but it went beyond that too. That Cas seemed to want Dean's company was really a perfect excuse for Dean to stick as closely to his curious saviour as he was able. If Cas was going to be his friend—and Dean was surprisingly amenable to that idea, not at all thanks to the stubbly jawbone which silently begged his palms to reach out and cup them—then there were a few things they had to get sorted out first.

"What movies do you like?" He asked.

Castiel, bless him, looked even _more _confused at that, and Dean realised that he'd sort of had that whole conversation with himself in his head.

"Just answer, dude."_ I'm sorry I'm an ass, _he tried to say with his eyes.

Either Cas understood the look or didn't dwell on the fact that Dean was mental, because he nodded in acceptance of the evasive subject-change, and then replied, "I have not seen many western films."

"Have you at least seen Star Wars?" Dean asked, because that was pretty much the most important indicator of whether or not a person had ever experienced cinema.

Castiel shook his head.

"Well, I sure hope you had no plans for the rest of today," he grinned, tipping the last of his coffee into his mouth.

Forty minutes later, Cas' eyes were flitting over the text in the opening scroll for _A New Hope_, so focused on taking it all in that Dean couldn't stop himself grinning. As the words faded into the starry backdrop Cas looked over and returned his smile. Dean's gut gave a happy lurch.

"I am still unsure of why we are beginning with the fourth film in this series."

"They made this one first, then went and filled in the prequels afterwards." Dean flapped a hand through the air as the action began on the screen, "just watch—don't even question it, man."

Castiel nodded and they sat wordlessly until the Death Star had been destroyed. It was companionable, the silence between them; comfortable like a soft blanket, and Dean let it wrap warmly around him, a calm lull that kept the world at bay.

"Why is the villain named 'Father'?" Castiel asked, as the credits began rolling. "And why would—"

"Nuh uh," Dean cried over his questions, "no spoilsport logic allowed! You have to wait and see. Want me to put the next one on now?"

Cas complied, hints of amusement skittering across his features, and they watched as Yoda taught Luke about the force, Lando Calrissian betrayed Han Solo and Darth Vader lured the young Skywalker out to confront him, breathing with his deep mechanical wheeze all the while.

"I see why you enjoy watching these movies," Castiel said after _The Empire Strikes Back _had drawn to a close. "They are quite diverting."

"Dude, did you learn English from Jane Austen?" Dean teased, until he was interrupted by a rumbling noise from his stomach.

They ordered food from room service and ate it in front of _Back to the Future_—now that Dean had accepted his role as educator in Awesome Movies 101, he was taking the responsibility very seriously.

Sam arrived home from work when they were halfway through the sequel, announcing himself only with the sound of the door opening and shutting and a trail of carpet-muffled footsteps. Dean heard the shower running minutes later. It was only when his brother emerged from his room dressed in a tuxedo, bowtie and all, that he came and said hello.

Dean fulfilled his brotherly responsibility to make fun of Sam's outfit, but a surge of pride filled him when he heard that Sammy'd been given a promotion. That was his kid brother, managing to pull success out of the junkyard that was their lives these past years.

Castiel had seemed concerned, though, when Sam explained where he was going. After Sammy was out the door, Dean turned to him.

"What was that about?" he asked. "Do you know something about these people Sam's dealing with?"

Cas looked down for a moment, watching his own hands fidgeting, fingers lacing together and slipping apart again. "I simply know that Lucifer Novikov is a formidable man," he grumbled eventually.

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Dean couldn't place where he'd heard it before.

"Who?" he asked.

"Lucifer Novikov," Cas repeated. "He is one of the main owners of NoviCorp, and the managing partner at his law firm. A man whose steely will overflows into the space where his conscience would have been. That is what is said of him, at least."

"Oh. And Sammy's going to be meeting this guy?" Cas seemed concerned, so Dean reasoned that he should be concerned too.

"It is possible."

"It's just some party though right?" Dean asked the air between them for reassurance. "Sammy can handle himself for one night."

"You're right," Cas said, a touch noncommittally for Dean's liking, but there was nothing he could do about anything now, anyway.

They watched a couple of _Die Hard _movies—because Bruce Willis was a badass and nobody would ever convince Dean otherwise—and then Cas yawned and asked Dean to pass him the blanket he'd slept under the previous night. Dean adamantly refused, and when Cas wouldn't get up and go to his bed, Dean looped an arm around him and made good on his threat to drag him there. Cas found his feet reluctantly, but Dean's arm stayed where it was, pulling Cas' warm body towards him, walking with him even if it wasn't strictly necessary. Neither of them commented on it, but Cas, sleepy as he was, seemed to lean into the touch. Dean felt a rush of fondness for the man. He'd also be lying if he tried to say it was the first that day.

Dean left Cas once he was satisfied that the guy was actually going to stay put and sleep in his own damn bed, then wandered back out to set himself up on the couch. Expensive hotel or not, it was a little lumpy to try and sleep on; it was no wonder that Cas had slept in so late that morning—it'd probably taken him all night to get to sleep in the first place. Dean switched the TV back on and lowered the volume, deciding that he'd wait up for Sam.

The waiting didn't take as long as expected, what with Sam returning not long after midnight, looking like he'd had somebody's hands and lips all over him. He also looked decidedly unhappy about the whole affair when Dean fired off a few routine questions about it, and slunk off for his second shower of the night. Not such a good party, then? Dean was, at the very least, reassured that the only problems Sam appeared to have had that night were to do with some overenthusiastic chick. God knew there were worse things.

Sam wandered by again not long after, still looking grumpy, but a little less ridiculous now that he was out of the penguin suit and into some pyjamas. Dean got up and made his way to the bathroom, splashing warm water on his face. He dried it off gingerly, taking note of each bruise leftover from his encounter with Alistair; the swollen reds and purples of his left cheek, the run of dark blue which framed either eye. No wonder the boy who'd served them at the coffee shop had given him a funny look. Cas, on the other hand, had looked at him so normally (albeit intensely) throughout the day that Dean had all but forgotten that the aching is his face translated to any sort of disfigurement. It occurred to him that Cas had never seen him in any better a state.

"No!—" a cry broke through the silence which had fallen over the hotel rooms, and Dean's pulse flew into a faster, harder rhythm at the raw, desperate sound of it. A wordless groan followed, which Dean traced to the doorway across the hall from him. Cas' room.

He entered to find Cas curled up near the edge of the mattress, tossing and whining softly. On the king bed he looked so small and childlike, so far removed from the man who had saved Dean's life.

"No, mm—Meg," the words were muffled amongst the sheets, but Dean was fairly sure he'd heard the name. Who was Meg?

"_Meg, no_—"

"Cas," Dean said, stepping forward to shake the shuddering shoulders gently. "Cas, wake up."

Cas whimpered again, but opened his eyes a moment later, looking panicked until he found Dean.

"Dean?" he breathed.

"Yeah, uh," Dean explained, all eloquence. "You were having a nightmare."

Cas nodded. "'msorry if I woke you."

"No, no you didn't, I was still up."

"Sleep here?" the drowsy question caught Dean by surprise, as Cas rolled over slightly to smooth a hand over the empty side of the mattress. Cas' eyes were already shutting again, his breaths slowing down and evening out, and it occurred to Dean that this was probably a moment where some sort of important line was being crossed—something he should think carefully about. Dean also knew from a wealth of experience, though, that he wasn't one for stopping and writing essays on the pros and cons of things before leaping in. Life was too damn short.

Besides, Dean was _tired_, and he knew exactly how comfortable this bed was. A yawn pushed itself out of his mouth, as if offering its approval as he walked around to the other side and climbed in under the warm covers.

He made a mental note to ask about Meg in the morning.

* * *

Hello lovely people; as always, if you're reading this I love you :) There are a few of you following this story and a few more dropping by to read (I can seeeee you there) but you're all very quiet! First one to come say hi gets a cookie! Or a drabble about cookies, which would be more feasible. Or just my undying affection, which, yeah, oh well. I'll just go now.


	5. The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven

Chapter title after the song by the Black Angels.

* * *

Dean awoke to an empty bed—a vast, luxurious bed which had felt like heaven when he'd first slept there but which, now that he knew what it was like with another body radiating warmth and safety beside him, felt strangely incomplete. He wondered whether Cas' absence was a signal that they wouldn't be talking about the previous night. Dean, for once, was perfectly happy not to have to discuss how he'd dropped by for a snuggle with his new maybe-friend, maybe-crush, and sort of indisputable knight-in-shining-armour (not that he'd _ever _say any of those things out loud) because the dude was having a bad dream. Sure, maybe when Dean had done the same thing with his parents or with Sammy as a kid they'd all seen a little less spilt blood, but… cuddling was still _cuddling_.

The look of poorly disguised panic on Cas' face when Dean came out to find him in the main living area was not at all reassuring. Cas looked like he'd just seen someone run over his pet kitten. Like he was the recipient, or maybe the bearer, of bad news. Dean didn't really think it was warranted; it hadn't actually been that bad, had it? He was pretty sure he'd be fine with doing it again; the couch was freakin' uncomfortable, and that would suffice as justification.

"Mornin' Cas," Dean said, forcibly casual, as though maybe Cas wouldn't say anything if he realised Dean didn't want to have a heart to heart about it.

"Dean." Cas' voice sounded small and thin—the exact opposite of how it ought to sound.

"Alright, what's eating at you?" He couldn't help but be concerned. If Cas was _really _so worried that they had to have some kind of discussion then Dean supposed—

"You have a letter."

Dean's heart sank into his stomach sank through his gut to the carpeted floor and beyond. Mail? That could only mean one thing, given his current address. It wasn't like anyone sent Dean postcards.

Awkward bedmate talks were immediately forgotten.

"Shit," breathed Dean. "What did it say?"

Castiel fidgeted, before reaching over to the small table beside the couch and picking up an envelope. Dean's name was printed across it in a typeface that, though it would appear innocuous enough to any outsider, was to him so familiar it made his stomach roll.

"I did not open it," Cas said. "It was not addressed to me."

Dean might've appreciated the privacy more if it weren't for the fact that Cas interfering in his business with Alistair was the sole reason he was breathing.

Dean grabbed the envelope and tore it open, afraid that if he stopped and thought any more about how little he wanted to know what it said he'd never have the balls to do it. Though they hadn't really felt hollow before, every threat would be a panic attack in its own right now that he knew exactly what Alistair was capable of.

He unfolded the sheet of paper the envelope had held.

_Dean, _the letter read. _I miss your pretty face. I don't take kindly to my playmates leaving me before our games are through. Crowley may have his money but I'm not finished with you. Expect to see me soon.  
Love,  
Alistair._

Dean was stunned by how utterly different it was to Alistair's previous notes to him. Those had been explicit warnings—almost surgical promises of what would be in store. Now that he'd met Alistair in person, Dean was able to hear the menace behind every word, the whole thing a sick euphemism from a sadist.

He really needed to sit down. What he ended up doing was more toppling onto the couch, missing the empty spot in his haste and half-landing on Cas' lap. The other man said nothing of it as Dean slid off him and over to the other end of the couch, but asked with an outstretched hand to see the page. Dean gave it to him and counted the seconds as he breathed slowly in and out. His heart raced and pounded like he was encased in it, not it in him.

"Crowley is not affiliated with this situation anymore," Cas said at length.

"I figured," Dean agreed, the words more whispers of breath than solid speech.

"Which means Alistair is working either on his own, or with a select group who share his interests. Those men at the warehouse—Crowley's men—were far too dispassionate, too easily swayed by monetary bribes, to be psychopaths of Alistair's kind. They will not be involved."

"Good to know," retorted Dean, though he wasn't sure the sarcasm came through the way he'd intended. "Only dealing with a handful of murderous crazies. Or, if we're super lucky, _just _the guy who wants to take the rest of my knuckles off my hands."

"I did not mean to insinuate that the situation was not dire."

Dean sighed apologetically. "I know you didn't." Castiel was the last person he should be treating like an ass. "I'm just strung kinda tight right now, you know?"

"Understandably. Would you find food at all comforting?"

Dean let out a chuckle. "Sure. I guess it's a little early for whiskey," he said, joking. Mostly.

"I have been thinking," Cas began, suddenly more grave, perhaps even a little nervous. Dean nodded for him to continue. "I own an apartment. There are extensive security measures in place. You could move there, if you would be amenable to that—your brother too, of course."

Dean tried to walk through it all in his head; he wanted to get the hell out of Alistair's sights, which meant leaving this hotel room was sure as hell something he was amenable to. His skin already prickled at the thought of Alistair watching, inescapable. At the same time, Dean highly doubted he'd ever feel okay about taking even more from the guy who'd already saved his skin, no matter how okay it apparently was with Cas himself. But… it was an apartment, a real house that wasn't bought by the night. Dean had always craved that, even if Sammy was the one who'd been more vocal about it. And it sounded like the safest place to go.

Besides, Dean was pretty sure his brain wasn't totally making up the part where Cas was looking at him like he didn't want him to leave. If he was right about Cas being a little short on friends, then maybe he could justify sticking around.

"Have you got enough beds?" he asked, by way of an answer.

Cas smiled, but faltered slightly. "There is a master bedroom and two guest rooms. However I can't… I myself prefer not to reside at that address."

Dean wondered what could be wrong with the place.

"It wouldn't feel right if you weren't even there, Cas." Dean noticed slightly too late that his crush might be showing. That hadn't even been what he'd meant, but… well, maybe it had. "It's your place. Plus you're the one with the nuts to stare Alistair down—and besides, safety in numbers, right?" He rattled off all the reasons he could think of to blur the small slip.

Thankfully, Castiel seemed too caught up in his own internal monologue to notice Dean's awkwardness at all.

"I have not stayed in the apartment since a year and a half ago," he said at length. Dean got the impression there was something leaden weighing on the simple statement, but he didn't have the pieces to figure out what it was.

"So why can't you go back?" he asked.

"I—" Cas looked pained and Dean felt terrible. Cas continued through it though, so Dean didn't interrupt him. "It is a place which represents a great many memories to me. I have, as yet, been unable to confront them." He paused. "I assure you there is nothing faulty about the building itself."

"Okay, well, if you're sure it's alright. Just until I find a way to help Sammy finance a place of our own, you know," Dean rambled, his brain and mouth conspiring in a jumble of excuses to plaster over the fact he was accepting yet _more_ charity from the handsome man with the shabby trench coat. Admitting that he wasn't able to take care of himself or Sammy one hundred percent was something Dean was hardwired not to do.

And yet, Castiel somehow pulled the words out with a gentle smile.

"Thanks, Cas," he said in summary. "You're getting us out of a real tight spot, man."

"It's nothing. You need certain resources; I have an excess supply of those same resources. It is only logical and reasonable that I should share them with you." Cas really did sound like he believed every word of that—and god, Dean was sure there couldn't be another human like him anywhere on the planet.

"Not everybody thinks like that. Even fewer actually _act _on it."

Cas nodded. "I know. The knowledge does nothing to diminish my own convictions on the matter, however. Now, when would you like to see the apartment? We could depart immediately, however if you would rather confer with Sam when he returns in the evening—" Now, if Dean wasn't mistaken, _Cas _was the one whose speech functions were off on a nervous ramble. He still sounded so formal it was difficult to be certain.

Dean interrupted him either way.

"Let's go now," he said. "I'll call Sammy, let him know what's going on, and that I'll swing by with the car when he needs a ride home from work. Unless you had any other plans for the rest of today, I'd rather not sit here feeling jittery the whole time."

"In that case, you should probably get dressed," said Cas.

Dean leapt into action, because they had a plan now, which meant he had something to focus on. It wasn't at all because he was suddenly conscious of the fact Cas was fully clothed, while he was wearing borrowed boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

Dean got to thinking on the ride over to Cas' apartment, mind wandering between instructions to _turn left up ahead _and _keep going to the next intersection _from Cas in the passenger seat. Thinking, of course, was a dangerous idea, and before too long words like _feelings _were cropping up often enough to remind Dean exactly why he didn't sit and ponder when he could possibly avoid it.

He considered turning up the AC/DC to drown his mind out, but he needed to hear Cas' directions.

It was surprisingly easy with Cas, Dean's thoughts decided, to just say and do whatever he felt like, without having to erect the kind of emotional wall he did with virtually everyone else he'd ever known. He couldn't pinpoint why; perhaps it was that Cas had met him at his absolute worst, his most pathetic, so no feelings Dean expressed after that could logically make him that much _more _pathetic? He didn't have to be strong for Cas the way he did for Sam, didn't have to plaster over it if he felt like crap. Maybe it was something in the otherness of the man, the sense that normal standards didn't apply with him, because he was so different. Dean couldn't decide whether he liked all this—he thought that maybe he did, liked just feeling able to talk freely, or huddle with someone on the couch—but it still made him nervous; the thinking, not the thoughts themselves, and the feeling, rather than the things he felt. The thoughts and feelings were _good _ones. But they were still _thoughts _and _feelings._

Dean was relieved when they finally pulled up outside an apartment block after almost an hour's drive. It still seemed kind of flashy, but a lot less so than the hotel.

"It is level three," Cas explained, rifling around in his coat pocket for a moment before producing a key, which he offered to Dean. "Apartment three-one-zero."

"Wait, you're not even going to come up?"

Cas looked mildly guilty, but shook his head.

"Man, I need you to show me what's what!" Even as he said the words Dean knew that he'd be fine to sort out what was what on his own. What kept the protests coming was something else; the idea that stepping into this deeper part of Cas' life without him opening the door felt wrong. The reluctance to be left there on his own. "Just walk me up?" he asked, and Cas relented.

They rode up in the elevator in silence, and Dean was pretty sure he could feel the nerves radiating from Cas. Maybe a few from himself, as well. What was it that lay buried in this place, that Cas had been on the run from?

Dean was reminded of the one and only time he'd been back to their old place in Lawrence, where his mother had died. It'd been back before his arrest, and was Sammy's idea through and through. They were in the neighbourhood, and his brother had been keen to see the first place they'd ever lived in. To him, it wasn't even a memory. To Dean, it had been something which tugged with a dangerous nostalgia, asking for its chance to sink old claws into older wounds. They'd knocked on the door, explained that they'd lived there as kids. The lady who answered had seemed to know who they were—said she'd seen a photograph or something—and that alone had triggered a painful twanging in Dean's chest. They'd gone inside for tea but left before too long, Sam sensing his discomfort and politely extricating himself from an enthusiastic conversation about local history. Nonsensical as it was, Dean could have sworn the place was haunted somehow.

Was that what this apartment would feel like to Castiel? Or were his demons something more easily confronted, accepted, than witnessing the death of a parent—something Dean might even be able to help him past?

They stopped in front of a white-painted door, the gold metal digits three-one-zero nailed to it, as Cas had described. Dean looked at the key in his hand, slotted it into the door's lock, twisted until it clicked, every movement feeling painfully slow in his anticipation. He pushed the door open, looked at Cas as if to ask permission, and then stepped inside.

It smelled a little musty, a few specks of mould dotted parts of the ceiling, and dust had assumed the position of fine woolly carpet, tablecloth, cushion-case, spidery-soft blanket of all. Beyond that, though, it looked astoundingly normal—a time-capsule of an everyday moment in the everyday home of everyday people. A few photo frames stood on the mantelpiece, a middle-sided television faced a slightly threadbare two-seater lounge chair. An empty mug still rested on the table, almost molded to it now by their common skin of powdery grey. There was a kitchen; a small alleyway of benches that led through to a small laundry room.

Dean ran his fingers over the dust on the table, watching as they left trails of exposed wood behind.

He sneezed.

"I apologise for the state of decay," Cas said from behind Dean, still hanging over by the door. He had stepped two paces inside and then stopped short, like he was trapped inside an invisible ring of fire. "The power and water should still be available. I will call a cleaner to take care of it now."

"No way," Dean answered, "if you've got a vacuum, some bleach maybe, I'll do it myself." It would be welcome to have some work to do, he thought. Instead of just being useless and all but squatting on Cas' property. Wiping up dust and scrubbing away mould was something he could do, and he would damn well do it.

Cas seemed to understand, as he simply nodded. "As you wish."

"Are you going to come in any further than that?" Dean asked, eyes indicating the ground where Cas' feet were planted, refusing to take another step.

"Not at this moment," he replied, and Dean detected a waver in his voice, which told him to leave it, for now.

"Alright then. Well, where's your cleaning stuff kept?" he changed the subject.

"There's a cupboard in the laundry where mops and buckets are. There's another near the bathroom where you should find bleach, sponges and a vacuum."

It didn't turn out to be as long a day as Dean had been expecting. The physical work brought a comforting warmth to his muscles, and the way his hands swept away the dirt felt like watching as the damage of neglectful months was healed. Cas came and went, bringing back coffees and burgers and fries, but was never gone for more than forty minutes or so. Mostly, he hovered around the doorway, polishing the door numbers, and looking on guiltily as Dean hummed Metallica and did all the work.

He'd complained at one point about feeling guilty.

"Now you know how I've felt ever since you rescued me," Dean had called out in response, and nothing more was said about it.

Dean was about to open a beer, a drink to mark the end of a good day's work, when Sam called.

Sammy had expressed no more concern about staying in the apartment than he'd seemed to about crashing in Cas' hotel room, so Dean picked his brother up from the office and they packed up anything they'd left lying around the hotel room, ready to move. Dean had pointedly _not_ mentioned Alistair's letter to him, though. He'd have to pick that moment very carefully.

Dean couldn't entirely help the proud grin which spread across his face when he showed Sam around, pointing out how clean everything was. Sam was smiling too, and though Dean wasn't sure if it was because of the place or Dean's own spurt of happiness, it warmed his heart to see.

They'd dropped Cas back at the Waldorf Astoria on their way back, but his absence didn't fully occur to Dean until later, after the celebratory takeout dinner and the apple pie and the television shows he and Sammy dozed in front of for a while before heading off to bed.

As he lay alone in yet another strange bed, Dean wondered how long you had to know a person before you had any right to miss them.


	6. One Fine Day In Hell

Chapter title is lyrics from Black Sabbath's awesome track "The Devil Cried".

* * *

"Yes." Sam spoke into the telephone, a forceful whisper—quiet so Dean wouldn't hear him, but with as much confidence as he could project.

A low, silky voice murmured approvingly from the other end.

"Yes," Sam repeated.

Sam's life had never exactly been the kind of thing it was easy to leap out of bed for, and the morning after the NoviCorp party was no exception. He groaned the moment his blaring alarm clock wrenched him from sleep, the weight of everything beginning to pile on immediately. His head ached, though whether that was at all attributable to the previous night's alcohol, or just to the army of thoughts, angry and disappointed, which besieged his mind, was a question he'd go about answering later if at all.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet finding the floor. There he paused for a moment, the rest of his body still reluctant to move from within the softness of the sheets. After a minute, he managed to get himself upright and begin changing into his work clothes for the day. The tuxedo hung in the closet, a reminder, and Sam took it down, deciding to drop it back to the rental shop on his way to work. The sooner it was gone, the better. Perhaps it was childish?—getting rid of one piece of the evidence didn't mean history itself was changed—but it was half past six in the morning and Sam was staring down the barrel of an entire day spent face to face with the very source of his frustrations and regrets. He decided that if he wanted to indulge his petulance with a few of the little things, there was little point in denying himself that.

As he passed the couches in the living area, Sam was surprised to note that they were completely unoccupied. He'd figured Dean would be sleeping there, when he'd come home to find his brother watching TV with a blanket piled over him and a pillow to one side. He had also assumed that Dean, upon discovering Castiel had slept there the previous night, would have allowed no argument against his own (probably permanent) relocation to the couch.

Curious, Sam tiptoed around to the other bedroom, and peered through the gap of the half-open door. It seemed that Dean had slept in the comfortable bed again after all—but this time not at Castiel's expense. Sam spied at least one of Dean's arms thrown over Cas as both of them slept. Despite his initial clench of anxiety at seeing his brother become so quickly tangled up with someone—now literally—a smile twitched at the edges of Sam's lips at the sight.

Sam's day didn't go uphill from there. It wasn't as though he'd expected it to, but that did little to assuage the irritation that coiled inside him as Ruby walked past dumping more and more thick folders on his desk and telling him curtly to have them read before he even thought about leaving the office for the day. She made few attempts at civility, refused to meet his gaze, and rolled her eyes sardonically every time he asked a simple question. Sam watched as scowl after scowl unfurled across her features, and felt ill as he remembered the sensation of those same lips fluttering over his skin.

Sam sat at his desk the entire day, stopping his reading only to retrieve and unwrap the bagel he'd bought on his morning walk. He continued reading as he bit into it. It was dry stuff, and Sam was under no illusions as to Ruby's intentions there; he wondered fleetingly how things might've been different if he hadn't called her out, while they were pressed up against that corridor wall last night. Whether, had he simply kept his mouth shut about what he may or may not have planned to tell Lucifer Novikov, she would even have confronted him about the matter yet.

He wondered, more dangerously, whether his answer had been the wrong one. He hadn't actually told Lucifer yet that he wished to turn down his offer—it was still there on the table—and with the way things had gone with Ruby so far that day, Sam couldn't help but consider, less and less hypothetically, what working directly for Lucifer would be like.

It was amidst such speculation that Sam's phone vibrated in his pocket.

The moment Sam heard his brother's voice coming through the phone, he became suspicious.

Dean didn't have to tell Sam that something was wrong for Sam to know it. It had been that way their entire lives; he would almost never admit what was troubling him, so it became Sam's job to collect all the clues, and try to weasel a little bit of therapeutic talking-about-it out of him.

Dean only sounded this cheerful when he was hoping to obscure something—laughing to hide a crumbly shake in his voice.

"How's it going, Sammy?" he asked, not pausing for Sam to answer. " I've got some news for you—we've got a house, man. If you're okay with it, of course. Cas has a place he's not using, an apartment, and he said we could have it for now. Sounds awesome, right?"

Sam was stunned. He had at least a million questions, but when he boiled it down, it _did _sound awesome. He'd always been nagging Dean about settling down, but Dean had never been able to commit to anywhere, naturally more of an outsider, a drifter, than Sam had ever felt comfortable with being.

He became aware of Ruby, shooting a glare that was really almost comical in his direction through the glass wall of her office.

"Uh, yeah Dean, that's great," he said hurriedly, turning his attention back to the thick bundle of court reports he'd been grappling with. "Do whatever it is you need to do."

Even after putting the cell away, Sam passed the rest of the day distractedly. Together with his previous musings regarding Lucifer, the matter of what could be going on with Dean trapped him in a web of uncertainty. Everything had been unsteady since the first of Alistair's letters had arrived; Dean hadn't told him about the threatening messages for three weeks after they'd started, but Sam had recognised that Dean's tether was shorter than usual and by the time he'd found the evidence stashed away in Dean's bag, his brother had been almost ready to come clean. Things had hardly been made any easier when Crowley's gang made good on their words—but at that time Sam's work, drudgery though it was, had been a constant, the necessary force of gravity rooting him to the ground with his head on his shoulders and his feet below his knees. He'd functioned that way all through school, too, managing to escape into the books where facts and figures did a lot better at making sense than his home life had.

After yesterday even that solid, albeit low floor had fallen away, out from under his feet.

He couldn't tell Dean about it, so there was nowhere for all these thoughts to go but around and around in his skull, where they stewed.

A migraine took root inside his head until staring at the swimming words on the page, over-bright with reflected light, was simply impossible to do for any longer. He heaved deep breaths in and huffed them back out, face cupped in the darkness of his hands, and tried again. He was no better a minute later, and so, quite past bothering to respond to Ruby's passive aggression, Sam pulled his phone back out and dialed Dean.

"Hey Sammy, what's up?"

"Hi Dean. I'm about done with work for the day, you said you'd bring the car around and we could go back to this apartment of Cas'?" Sam squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose against the pain. His voice sounded breathy and strained to his own ears, so it was hardly a surprise when Dean picked up on it;

"You right there?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam assured him, "just a headache. Work, y'know."

"Okay then, I'll see you soon."

"Yep. Bye, Dean."

Sam dropped the phone on top of the pile of still-unread files before him and rested his head there on top of them too. He wondered exactly what he'd have to do as Lucifer's assistant; he could only guess it would be more interesting than what he'd read today. Lucifer's cases could be controversial, morally ambiguous, but Sam was sure that one thing they weren't was boring. Lucifer Novikov didn't have time for mediocrity—that was what he had people like Ruby for.

And so Sam thought to himself: where in that picture, that hierarchy, did he want to be?—running, perhaps too fast, alongside the white-hot flame that was Lucifer, or staying still while Ruby's slow poison brought him gradually, inevitably, to his knees?

He retrieved a plastic cup of water and knocked back a couple of painkillers, then settled back down at his desk to wait until Dean showed up.

The ride back to the hotel was quiet. At first, Sam had been thankful for the lack of conversation, letting his headache simmer and fade ever so slightly, but when the silence drew on as they packed their bags and piled back into the car, Sam couldn't help but wonder what was going on in that head of Dean's.

"Are you sure about this, moving into this place?" he asked. Dean looked surprised at the sudden interruption to whatever daydream he'd been having.

"It's a great place," he replied after a minute, and Sam could practically hear the _More than I deserve _trailing after the words.

It _was _a pretty great place. Sam looked around in wonder at the sheer normalcy of it, as well as the cleanliness which Dean pointed out boastfully. Sam hadn't really seen that side of his brother before—the side that seemed to take pride in cleaning and all things related to having a home—but it appeared to be genuine. Sure, he'd had spaghetti-Os cooked by Dean in tarnished pots on rusty motel stovetops, but this was different, more permanent, complete, homey. Maybe Dean had wanted this as much as Sam had all along.

Was it Cas, then, that was making this difference, making Dean feel like he could actually accept help? Sam was certain that was part of it—but there still had to be something else, for them to be standing in this whole new house less than a day after it had first been offered.

Something needling between Dean's ribs and pushing him out over that ledge where he could no longer stand firm in his own stubbornness. Something like fear.

Aside from Sam's suspicions, the evening was pleasant. They bought Thai from a shop less than a block away and washed it down with some pie Dean had sniffed out at a nearby bakery. Then they relaxed in the lounge chairs, and while Dean flicked through the channels on the television Sam closed his eyes at last, wallowing in the knowledge that he didn't _have _to open them again if he didn't want to.

Until morning, but whatever happened in the morning was a good several hours and a lot of thinking away.

"Night Sammy," Sam was half-roused by an arm shaking his shoulder lightly. "I'm heading to bed now."

"'Mkay Dean," he yawned back.

When Sam next opened his eyes it was pitch dark and he was conscious of an uncomfortable crick in his back. He pulled himself up from the chair and fumbled for his phone, using its glow to guide him to the light switch he spotted in the corner of the room. _2:58am _read the clock on the screen.

On the one hand, it was always irritating to have a crappy night's sleep with work—_god the work_—to do in the morning, but on the other, when Dean was hiding something he'd guard it like a Rottweiler as long as he was conscious. Right now, Sam could hear occasional snores carrying from Dean's bedroom.

Dean had left a couple of bags, still packed, on the floor of the living room, so Sam started with those, hoping that whatever the problem was, it was had some sort of material evidence. And that that evidence wasn't buried under Dean's pillow.

One bag was weighed down with books and DVDs, many of the cases suggesting that the films' dialogue was mainly delivered in moans, heavy breaths and falsely enthusiastic shrieks. Sam cracked the first one open, saw that all it contained was a disc, and moved on to the next.

It worked in Sam's favour to let Dean keep thinking his tricks had Sam fooled.

Sure enough, tucked into the case of _Casa Erotica number godknowswhat_, Sam found a folded sheet of paper. He opened it out to read what it said, and his throat immediately tightened, dread squeezing the breath right out of him.

This was a letter from Alistair.

This was less than a day old.

Sam's brain whirred, half still groggy from napping and half burning up with the friction of overdrive. Alistair had known where they were, had found them at the hotel. That was why they had moved here. It couldn't last, though; Alistair would find them again within the week, if he hadn't had eyes on them the entire time… so either this couldn't be permanent, or Dean had given up on running. Sam didn't want to find out what the latter option could mean.

He found his phone between the couch cushions and scrolled through his contact list to the letter L.

_Lucifer, _the screen read, as he clicked call and held it up to his ear.

"You are aware that it's past three in the morning," Novikov's voice purred. "Might I ask who's calling me at this fine hour?"

Suddenly it occurred to Sam exactly what he'd just done.

"It's Sam. Sam Winchester. And I'm sorry for waking you, I just—"

"You didn't, I was up," Lucifer cut through smoothly, sounding nothing but calm and somewhat amused. Typical. "What can I do for you, Sam?"

"I wanted to ask you a question first," Sam began, "and then I wanted to say yes. To your offer, I mean."

"Well then, ask away, Sam."

"My brother—when we met, you knew about what happened to him. Well, it's… it's still happening, there have been more threats. Is there anything you can do?" he stammered through the words, their meaning still breeding new fear within him.

"I may well be able to exercise some influence in that area," Lucifer responded, infuriatingly casual, and Sam just needed an answer.

"Does that mean you will, or you won't?" he pressed.

Lucifer paused, and Sam felt the moment dragging out like the slow pull of barbed wire through skin. "I will," he said finally.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Thankyou."

"I think I know exactly how you may go about thanking me," Lucifer chuckled. "You said you had an answer for me, concerning my proposal from the other night?"

Right, Sam thought to himself. Time to make good on your end of this bargain. No backing down, not now that you know how to make sure Dean is safe.

"Yes," he spoke into the telephone, sounding as sure, as confident as he could.

Lucifer's low, silky voice murmured approvingly from the other end; "very good, Sam, I _am _pleased. Would you mind saying it again, just so I can be sure I've heard correctly? That and I do so like the way the word sounds when you say it."

Sam wondered briefly whether he really was selling his soul to the devil, wondered if even that wouldn't be worth it for Dean, who had already done the same and more to save _him. _He took a deep breath and repeated his answer.

"Yes."

* * *

Apologies for the fact that this chapter is a day late, this past week has been hectic with Uni, and the next few promise to be similar, so hopefully somewhere along the way I'll figure out what 'time management' is and how it ought to be done.  
That said, I'm still aiming to keep updates weekly.  
The next chapter should also be a fun peek into Cas' backstory.  
As always, if you're reading this, you're the best.


	7. Roll Away Your Stone

I'm sorry guys, update is late and I'm a terrible person. My sleeping habits recently have been up there with Tony Stark's and Will Graham's. Hopefully this chapter will help you forgive me.

Title is after the song by Mumford & Sons.

* * *

"You _what_?" Dean's whole face scrunched up with disbelief.

"I told Lucifer I'd work for him," Sam replied, clearly aiming for calm and collected, but Dean knew him better than that, knew when he was secretly uneasy.

"But _why_? You know what people say about the guy. He's—he's dangerous, Sam!" Dean couldn't understand it, not for the life of him. Sure, Sam had always looked for success, and he usually found it, too, talented idiot that he was—but he'd also always had a conscience so big it was a pain in the ass sometimes.

"Maybe he is," Sam agreed. "Shouldn't that mean it's better to be on his side?"

"This isn't you, and I don't like it," Dean blurted out, worried thoughts commandeering his mouth entirely. "You're gonna have to give me a better explanation if—"

Dean saw the exact moment that Sam's face set into a mask, resolute, a challenge; "while we're busy with explanations," he said, "how about you tell me what you planned to do about Alistair."

Sam couldn't possibly know about the latest letter, could he? Dean decided to play dumb, just in case.

"Alistair's a thing of the past, Sam, and I'm coping _fine_ so long as you don't keep bringing him up," he lied.

Sam just gave his head a slow shake, features pulling tight into one of those scowly bitchfaces he was so good at.

"I found the damned letter, Dean. Criticise me all you want, but at least I'm being upfront with you about this."

"Don't talk as though this is the same thing, Sam. I didn't _choose _to have some psycho tailing me, okay? You're _volunteering _here."

Sam gave a derisive snort. "You did, though! You couldn't have expected Castiel to show up—you should be _dead _right now, and you knew that was what would happen the moment you sold your soul to that Crowley bastard. You chose, all right, and I had to live with that—_have _to. So now I'm choosing, and you're going to deal with it."

"You were _dying, _Sam!" Dean was yelling, but he couldn't care less. "What the hell was I supposed to do?"

Sam opened his mouth, ready to yell right back, but only quiet words came out; "anything but throw your life away, Dean. But you did it anyway. I'm just trying to get it back, because what the hell else am _I _supposed to do?—sit here and wait for the day you disappear again, and not even Castiel can find you? Lucifer says he can keep you safe."

Dean had known this was bad from the start, but now it was worse than he could have imagined. This was not something his little brother was allowed to try and do, not _for him_. He couldn't carry that weight.

"No, Sam," was all he could say.

"I can handle this—far better than I can handle doing nothing. You've got to let me make my own decisions."

"You can make your own decisions when you stop making _dumb _decisions."

"Because you're the king of awesome decision-making, Dean. I'm going to work."

"Do you need me to drive—"

"I'll take a cab."

With that, Sam closed the door—loudly, the drama queen—leaving Dean behind to think about exactly how little he could do about anything.

In search of distractions, his attention fell on the framed pictures on the mantelpiece. He'd cleaned them off a bit as he'd made his rounds with a duster the previous day, but the corners and crevices were still lined with it. He took a proper look at them for the first time.

There were three photographs; one was of Cas, with a dark-haired woman pulled to his side, both of them smiling. In the second were two boys, one looking to be about fifteen, with waves of sandy hair and a mischievous expression, the other a skinny thing with windswept black hair and unmistakable blue eyes, not more than seven or eight years old, squinting at the camera. The photo was small and yellowed and didn't fit properly in the frame, torn all down one side like there had once been someone else there. The third was of the dark-haired woman and an older man who wore odd, round yellow-tinted spectacles and smiled with his teeth. He had an affectionate arm wrapped around the woman's shoulder. There wasn't much of a resemblance, but Dean's best guess was that he was her father. Whoever she was.

He remembered the name Cas had cried out in his sleep: Meg. Meg could be anyone—mother, sister, friend, regular barista at the Starbucks down the street—but from the sound of his voice, strangled by what crept up on him in his dreams, he knew she was somebody important. The very fact of her had been weaseling its way further into his mind, sticking there like a bit of popcorn shell caught in his throat; her name was the tip of an iceberg, the shape, size and location of which Dean had no concept of. All he knew was that it was there, this mysterious suffering, and that, in sailing any closer to Castiel, he was bound to slam into it sooner or later.

The knowledge did nothing to change the fact that Dean absolutely wanted to figure the man out. Maybe, just maybe, he even wanted Cas to figure him out, too; to understand the flawed and broken bits that made him, because _maybe _Cas was capable of caring about him in spite of it all. Dean was pretty sure he'd never wanted that from anybody before.

He started when a guitar riff chorused from his cell.

"Hello Dean," Castiel rumbled as soon as he answered. "I am calling to enquire as to your plans for the day. If you are not otherwise occupied, I would enjoy your company for lunch."

Dean still hadn't had a chance to say a word; Cas just pressed on, putting the entire invitation out there in one go. Dean wondered if he'd just been asked on a date. He reprimanded the part of his mind which had made that suggestion.

"No plans, lunch sounds great," he answered, before Cas could rattle off the entire but-if-you're-busy-that's-understandable-no-pressu re-really-just-a-casual-suggestion routine he had a feeling was coming.

"You're sure?" Cas sounded cautious in a way that made Dean want to ruffle his unruly mop of hair and tell him to calm down. It was incomprehensible to him that Cas could so earnestly suspect Dean might not want to see him.

"'Course I'm sure. Should I head over now?"

"You are welcome whenever suits you."

"Okay, well then," Dean grinned to himself, "I'm on my way."

The car ride felt longer than it should have, even blasting Zeppelin the whole way. The music couldn't melt that heavy thought—thinking about it, a led zeppelin was an appropriate image for the way it hung over him. In the end, he resolved to ask about Meg when he got the chance.

Cas opened the door looking as pleased to see him as Dean felt.

"Thankyou for coming," he said, somewhere between shy and gruff.

"Thanks for inviting me, man. Your apartment's great, but it was getting a little lonely there." Dean coated the truth in lightheartedness.

They took seats on the sofa and Cas passed Dean the remote.

He wished he could say that now he was back here, his curiosity about Castiel's past had dissipated. It hadn't. And now he had to keep his promises to appease it.

He opted for a direct approach.

"Who's Meg?" he asked simply.

Cas froze—such absolute paralysis that Dean began backpedalling automatically.

"You know what, no. Don't answer that, I'm sorry I asked, I just heard you say her name while you were having that nightmare and I was curious, that's all, and I'm sorry, forget I ever—"

Cas held up a hand and Dean was silenced.

"It's okay," he said, very, very quietly, like he was testing the words to see if they felt true on his lips. "I think I would like to try and talk about her, if you would be willing to hear it. No-one has asked me before."

"Okay," said Dean with a slow nod.

"Meg was my wife," Cas began. And wow, what a beginning it was. Dean had considered the possibility of a girlfriend, maybe, but it was difficult for him to imagine Cas being married. Maybe it shouldn't have been. Dean tried to keep his facial expressions in check. Besides, there was a bruise on one of his eyebrows that ached when he quirked them upwards.

"We were only married for one year. I met her when I travelled here from Russia for work. She was an American citizen; I was not. It was practical to cement our relationship in legal terms. That is not to say I did not love her enough to desire marriage regardless. She was the best thing that had ever happened to me. When we met, I was… in bad health; Meg pieced me back together, made me a new and better person. We did not have nearly long enough together, however, before she was taken away."

Cas paused. Now that Dean had started learning, peeling back those stiff, mysterious layers, he didn't want to stop.

"What happened?" he urged.

"Crowley."

The name slunk out into the air with a growl, uttered as though it were toxic—and from the chill Dean felt in his blood, it may even have been.

There was no mistaking what Cas meant by it.

He was lost for words, imagining what it might have been like to actually suffer the death he'd come so close to in Alistair's hell, or to live knowing that a loved one had been through it. Dean knew that if he'd lost Sam that way, every slash and twist of every blade and instrument would have echoed agonizingly in his own bones for the rest of time. He said nothing, could say nothing. Instead, he reached out for Cas' hand and hoped the contact spoke for him.

In response, Cas tightened his fingers around Dean's, and fixed him with a soulful look that made Dean's stomach twist. The sadness there was so evident, the pain virtually unrestrained—and yet he still managed to look at Dean as though he were everything that was right with the world, a broken toy that was the best thing even in the life of a man who could afford to buy anything.

Dean wasn't sure when exactly Cas' face got so close to his, but he didn't flinch, didn't pull back; wouldn't so long as Cas didn't. Dean had been this physically close to plenty of people—women, predominantly—but few of them seemed to peer so effortlessly into him, seeing through enough of his disguise that he stopped wasting so much energy on holding it up. No others had ever made him feel like it could possibly be safe to allow that.

Cas was reserved and alien and generous, appeared simultaneously innocuous and thoroughly intimidating. None of the usual rules fit him at all, hadn't for a moment since Dean had first laid blurry eyes upon him.

And, right now, he was staring very intently at Dean's lips, as though he could extract all the answers he could ever need from them.

Eyes roamed, hungry, like they'd rather be mouths.

Each movement from there managed to be subject to microanalysis and answerable to no coherent thoughts whatsoever at the same time. Each tiny tilt of Cas' head translated into the inching forward of Dean's a split second later, until finally the ghosting of Cas' hot breath over his lips gave Dean the gumption to close what narrow gap remained—not only for himself, but for Cas; for both of them, in a moment where he could see that wanting (perhaps needing) this was mutual.

The meeting of their lips was tentative, Dean conscious of the splits and bruises scattered over his face and Cas equally mindful. Dean brought a light hand to Cas' neck, pulling him in just enough to serve as encouragement. Castiel's hands hovered over Dean's chest, touching without really touching. Their presence there reminded him of the healing work those hands had done, as they traced the spaces between the wounds with such familiarity, mapping them out as though the fabric of his clothes didn't hide them.

Cas' lips were as soft as they looked; pale and pillowy, they seemed to fade out into the rest of his skin, outlined as much by the stubbly shadows surrounding them as by any redness of their own. Cas tilted to the side so as not to catch Dean's nose, the bone there in the process of pulling itself back together. He ran his tongue lightly over the seam of Dean's lips and Dean responded, parting them in permission and pressing as hard and close to Cas as he dared.

When they pulled apart, silence hung between them for a long moment, slightly laboured breaths—maybe even racing heartbeats—the only sounds audible. Dean began to wonder what on earth he was supposed to say.

Before any words, probably inappropriate ones, fell out of his mouth in an attempt to diffuse any awkwardness—was it awkward? Was it just him feeling like everything was _really_,intensely still all of a sudden?—Castiel just wriggled in closer to Dean's side and rested his head against his shoulder. The anxiety vanished.

"Thankyou," mumbled Castiel. "For listening."

Dean couldn't stop his fingers from pushing Cas' hair up off his forehead, running tenderly through the mess of soft strands. He wasn't much good with words, he knew that—but he'd do everything he could to let Cas know he wasn't going anywhere.


	8. Running With the Devil

Chapter takes its name from the Van Halen song.

* * *

Standing outside the huge, frosted glass doors of Lucifer's office, Sam felt strangely calm. So far that morning, he'd already argued with Dean, and had to clear his things out of the desk he'd only _just_ moved them into, under Ruby's sulky gaze. Ruby may have wanted Sam to accept Lucifer's offer when she'd thought she had her hooks in him, but now no motives could disguise her disdain. Sam supposed he'd be envious if he were her, too—not that he cared particularly, after how she'd tried to manipulate him.

Now, as he waited to see Lucifer, with his inexplicably, convincingly pleasant manners towards Sam, it almost felt like the least threatening place he could be. Which, part of his brain reminded him, would more than likely turn out to be a terrible call. As a slim man in a sharp suit, nearly as tall as he was, approached him, he pushed that concern away and went back to pretending he wasn't totally out of his depth. Even if reality _did_ have plans to return and bite him, he hadn't made this decision for himself alone.

"Mr. Winchester," the man said. "Please follow me."

Sam did.

He was led in through the glass door and found himself in a corridor, rather than an office. To his right, a series of doors stretched out, all of them shut. To his left there was only one door, which his guide held open for him, ushering him inside with a stiff arm movement.

Lucifer stood, a dark, rigid silhouette against a wall of wide windows, overcast-white daylight turning him to shadow. As Sam approached, he could make out the familiar sandy hair, hands clasped behind the back which was turned to him.

"Sam," Lucifer drawled, swiveling slowly to face him. "Welcome," he smiled.

"Mr. Novikov," Sam nodded.

"Lucifer, please," he was corrected. Cool blue eyes wandered up and down his frame, casually intimidating. "Have a seat, Sam."

Sam dropped himself down into a big leather chair near the polished wooden desk which spread several metres sideways and was another two deep. It was carved and heavy, and more of a dining table, really.

This office, Sam thought as he glanced around, was larger than most of the motel rooms he and Dean had stayed in over the years. Unlike those, it was also immaculately clean. The walls were lined with shelves, stocked with occasional photo frames and an impressive collection beautifully bound legal books. Sam resisted the urge to stand back up and pull each and every one of them out for inspection. He felt jittery, his feet tapping sporadically against the floor even after he tried to arrest their fidgeting.

"Your office is nice," he said lamely.

"I quite like it," Lucifer agreed. "It's where I spend the vast majority of my time, after all. Feel free to take a look around; I find that too much time spent sitting down does no-one any good."

Sam stood again, grateful or the invitation. Lucifer didn't appear to be angry—he simply stared on, chuckled to himself, admired Sam as if he were a zoo animal or a trophy. Sam made his way over to the closest wall of shelved books, and pulled one out, comforted by the weight of bound pages in his hands.

"You enjoy study," observed Lucifer.

Sam nodded.

"You did not complete your time at Stanford, though."

"No—actually—I never actually started. Didn't make it to the scholarship interview; it was around the time Dean got out, and my girlfriend, Jess—uh," he faltered. He'd rarely talked about Jess since her death—even to Dean—and no doubt Lucifer had dug up enough of his personal history to fill in the blanks without him needing to now.

"A tragedy for the legal profession."

"Not necessarily," Sam tried to brush the compliment off, hand it back like he would a jacket too large for him, much as he envied whichever version of himself it might have fit.

"I am what they call an expert, Sam. You might take my opinion as fact on matter such as this; your mind, fully trained in the law, would be an extraordinary asset." He paused. "Would you continue your training if the opportunity arose?"

It wasn't like Sam hadn't thought about it—long and hard, and _longingly_. He'd come to terms with the fact it was beyond his reach, but imagination and acceptance of reality could coexist.

"Yes," he answered. "But that's hypothetical. My life is different now."

"What would you say if I told you this position could accommodate—no, _required_ part time study with Stanford Law School?"

"I'd say that it's impossible; there's no way I can aff—" Sam began, but trailed off as he realised that Lucifer was _offering. _After that, stunned silence was all Sam was able to answer with before Lucifer spoke again.

"I'll secure a place for you beginning next semester."

He was being bought off, tied into something he desperately wanted by someone and something which felt about as solid as a fault line during an earthquake—but what did it matter? He was already tied here, first and foremost, by the promise of Dean's safety. Every day he was able to spend as a law student was better than nothing, wasn't it?—even if it all went wrong and was stripped away before he could graduate. Sam had learned to expect as much and more from his life, and to keep working, keep reaching in spite of it.

He looked up from the book towards Lucifer, almost daring to meet his eyes as he said, "I'd like that." And he didn't have to lie at all.

Lucifer made tea, strong and black from a decorative tin of loose leaves. Sam hadn't had much tea since his days in pre-law; Dean preferred coffee, and the lifestyle they were dragged along by—hunting for bits and pieces of work between road trips as they migrated across all the states of America and back—had nailed him to a routine of needing the stronger caffeine boost.

"Do you take milk?" Lucifer asked, as he set the pot, cups and saucers on a tray.

"Just a dash."

"Sugar?"

"No thanks."

Lucifer filled a tiny jug with milk and added it to the setup.

"So," he said, as the two of them sat. "I am travelling to Detroit this afternoon. I was wondering whether you would be amenable to joining me there, in your new capacity as my assistant. I have three days of very important meetings scheduled."

Sam was pretty sure the sudden, surprising declarations were all in a typical day's work for Lucifer. Detroit. That afternoon. It would take a plane trip. What would Dean think of him jetting off with Lucifer for three days?

Lucifer poured the tea, one hand carefully securing the lid on top of the pot as he tilted it. The tea steamed, the scent dark and smoky, almost nutty.

"Russian caravan," said Lucifer, raising his cup and inhaling as if admiring the nose of an expensive wine.

Sam added a few drops of milk, watching the white swirl like flourishes of impossibly fine fabric before finally dispersing.

"I'm not sure how Dean would feel about me leaving," Sam let the _with you _go unsaid. "It's a… tense time."

"I'm sure," Lucifer nodded. Sipped his tea. Continued; "Speaking of which, I have an offer for your brother, too—one which would help ensure he was beyond the clutches of Crowley's buffoons." Sipped his tea again.

Sam was growing impatient again, despite himself. "What is it?" he asked. This was Dean. This was why he was here. He had to know.

"I have a brother, as you may know, who heads this company alongside me. Michael, his name is. I happen to know he is about to advertise for an assistant himself. Less of a legal position, though; almost a bodyguard. I've noted the _extensive_ self-defense training you both received from your father—a military man, interested in controlling his sons without actually being there for them. I can relate." Lucifer's tone was of the same casual authority as ever, but Sam knew, if Lucifer really could relate, that a whole boatload of bitterness lay buried not far beneath the surface. He was surprised, given Lucifer's cold, stony reputation, that he had shared as much as he had at all. Had it been an accident?

"You think Dean could apply for that job?" Sam leapt in, not giving Lucifer time to recognise the slip and react—with lashes of defensive anger, or immediate, thick walls pulled tight around himself; Sam had experience with every unhealthy coping mechanism and symptom of denial under the sun.

Luckily, Lucifer seemed to accept the drive forward. "Better than that; I think he could start tomorrow morning," he said, a self-indulgent smile playing across his lips.

Sam had heard about Michael Novikov, too—he was, if the media were to be believed, everything that Lucifer was not; the meticulously upstanding citizen, who had always followed his absent father's instructions to the letter, while Lucifer had taken his portion of the family company in whichever direction he pleased. It occurred to him that Dean and Michael were quite possibly the perfect match.

"Can I run it by him now?" Sam asked, and Lucifer gave his assent.

Sam rose, took out his cell and pressed the first of his speed dial contacts. He wandered to the far end of the office as the number rang. When Dean didn't pick up, he began to wonder if their argument was making him petty. Then, before he could stop himself, he was entertaining far worse possibilities; what if Alistair had—

One of the pictures nestled amongst the volumes on Lucifer's bookshelves suddenly caught his attention.

Five children were lined up on a park bench—two tall, blonde teenagers, one of whom was clearly Lucifer, the other presumably Michael. A smaller, gingery-haired boy winked at the camera, one arm slung around a little girl with fiery red plaits, the other hand tickling her as she laughed, spread across his lap with her head thrown back—but it was the last child, who stared straight forwards with wide, round eyes, too composed and serious to be aware of the wild kicks and flails of his bed-hair, which caused Sam to freeze.

_Castiel._

He must have said it aloud, because Lucifer responded.

"Ah, the old family photographs—I am, at heart, a sentimental fellow. And you are already familiar with Kazimir, curious man that he is." At that moment, Lucifer seemed to notice that Sam wasn't speaking or moving—just standing and staring in shock. "_Oh. _He didn't tell you?" Lucifer seemed both amused and disappointed as the comprehension dawned on him, but it may have been entirely beyond Sam to read him accurately at that moment.

"Tell us what?—and _who_? Who's Kazimir?" he struggled.

"_Well_. I think you may need another cup of tea, my friend." Lucifer chuckled, emptying more from the pot without waiting for an answer. Taking the photo with him, Sam found his way over to the chair he'd been sitting in, grateful now for the support it offered. He'd been waiting for the penny to drop, with regard to the mysterious Cas, but an entire false identity went beyond whatever he'd thought to expect. The reasons people lied about who they were usually weren't reassuring ones.

"Cas… the—the man who rescued Dean from Crowley and Alistair—who is he really? What does he want from us?"

"Kazimir is the youngest of my siblings. In this photograph, you see him, my sister Annushka, my brothers Gavriil and Mikhael, and of course myself. For business in the United States we tend to go by less Russian versions of our names. Kazimir, though, or Casimir, as he was known here—had a falling out with the family. A series of them, really, beginning before he ever journeyed to America. He trained to be a doctor—"

"Yes, he said that," Sam confirmed, relieved to hear that at least part of Cas' story had been truthful.

"—but never practiced as one. He had a drinking problem. Always the sombre one, my littlest brother, got very maudlin. He didn't like the way the family business operated, didn't like blindly following Dad's orders. Can't say I disagree there—but it drove him completely dysfunctional. He took an accounting position out here, but the drinking didn't stop, not until he tried to jump off that bridge, anyway. And from there it was all Cas-reborn, thanks to the bratty daughter of one of my former business partners. Gone was Kazimir Novikov, and instead there emerged a_Castiel Novak_, sober but no less sappy—and, finally, completely estranged."

"He tried to jump off a bridge?" Sam blurted out. He was still angry, but… the way Cas was seemed to make a little more sense after this introduction. The man gave the impression of having himself together, but nowhere was anything for him to be grounded by; he livedin a hotel, for goodness' sake.

"Mm," Lucifer replied, around a mouthful of tea. "Well, he managed it, more accurately. Broke a few bones on impact, too, and he could hardly swim at the best of times. It was all going right for him until that silly girl Meg went and dragged him out of the water. She was a nurse; the healing-and-romance routine was sickening."

"Meg?"

"She's dead now."

Sam wondered how Dean would react to all of this new information. Hell, _any _of this new information.

"What happened to her?" he asked quietly.

"I was representing a client in a disagreement with a certain Mr. Crowley. He decided that targeting my young brother's wife would be a blow keen enough to interfere with my case, to deter me. He was mistaken."

_Wife? _Sam had been well aware that he knew nothing about Cas. That there was _quite so much to know _still caught him somewhat off-guard, though. The ruthlessness with which Lucifer described this now-murdered woman also set his teeth on edge somewhat, reminding him of exactly who he was playing tea parties and lawyers with.

His phone buzzed in his lap. He glanced at Lucifer, who nodded his permission.

"Hey Dean."

"Sammy," Dean answered. He didn't seem angry, and he also didn't sound like anything untoward was happening, which was a relief. "Sorry I missed you a few minutes back, I was busy with Cas."

_Speaking of whom._

"Cas lied to us," said Sam, at precisely the same time Dean said,

"I kissed Cas."

"What?" they both followed up in unison.

"I kissed Cas, alright," Dean sounded like he was gritting his teeth, "and it wasn't half bad. I'd do it again. But what's this you're saying about him lying?"

"He's told us nothing about himself, Dean. Did you know he was _married_?"

Dean huffed in annoyance. "I _did, _actually. He told me. I think the real question is, how did _you _know?"

"Did he also tell you he's Lucifer's brother, and that Castiel Novak isn't his real name?"

The thick silence at the other end of the line told Sam loud and clear that Dean's heart to heart with Cas hadn't touched on either of those things.

"What _is _his name, then?" Dean finally spoke up again, sounding terse.

"Why don't you ask him that. I was actually calling to tell you that I'm going to Detroit for three days. For business. Lucifer and I are leaving tonight."

"I see how it is, Sam; it's cool for you to hang with Lucifer, but I'm not allowed to trust Cas. Have you even thought about how twisted that sounds?"

"Trust him all you like—whichever version of him you can find—just don't expect me to spoon-feed you nutella when it ends badly."

"Good, I will, then. I don't need you to baby me, Sammy. Watching out for _you _has always been _my _job." He paused. "And that was _one time_, damn it_._"

Dean was raising his voice, but Sam did all he could to keep his own in check around the office. "Which brings me to my next point—I don't care what you do, Dean, so long as you come to my work tomorrow morning ready to start your new job."

There was a pause of confusion, as Sam had anticipated. "Huh?"

Now that he had Dean listening to him, he set about filling him in on the situation. "New job. Remember how I told you Lucifer promised to help keep you safe? You'll be an assistant to his brother, Michael. The pay will be good, the security too. Hate Lucifer all you want—hate _me _if you're set on assigning blame—but Dean, just show up, please."

"Uh. Okay." Dean muttered. "Don't think this in _any _way means you are off the hook, here," he warned, "but I'll go, see what the deal is."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, great. I'll call you from Detroit tomorrow night and see how it went."

"Fine."

"Are you ready to go?" Lucifer asked after Sam had hung up. "I fancy some lunch. Then we'll need to collect your things, and head to the airport."

They took the elevator down to the garage level, the other two staff members who were heading downstairs stepping back and waiting, sheepish expressions on their faces, for the next lift, leaving Lucifer and Sam to share the little cube of space between them. The ride was short and silent but not altogether uncomfortable. Lucifer's posture was straight and tall, shoulders square in his sharp suit jacket, and Sam imagined that if he were shorter than Lucifer he would find the man's stature thoroughly intimidating. As it were, however, he looked down to Lucifer, at least in the sense of physical size, and it somehow evened things up a bit. If he was going to be working this closely with Lucifer, he couldn't afford to be too afraid of him.

When they stepped out of the elevator, a red Mustang was waiting for them, a graying man which thick black eyebrows and a wide smile standing beside it holding the passenger door open.

"Thankyou Warren," Lucifer nodded at the man, "but I'll take it from here myself; have the afternoon off, would you?"

"Of course. Thankyou sir," Warren replied, ducking his head and leaving them alone.

Lucifer turned to Sam, gesturing towards the car door, still open and inviting. The car was beautiful, bright and shiny and sleek—and something told Sam it was far from the only car Lucifer owned. He climbed in, ducking his head under the doorframe as Lucifer slipped around and into the driver's seat beside him, flicking a hand out to turn the radio on.

A low rumble of bass instruments swelled from the speakers, the ominous crescendo dying down and then building again. String phrases arched over the top, the notes rising and falling, the minor chords sweetening occasionally, just for a moment. The sound of an oboe, a trumpet, a French horn crept into focus before falling back into the sea of blended orchestral sound. Sam had heard this piece before.

"The Isle of the Dead?" he asked, half-sure.

Lucifer's eyebrows rose a little. "Indeed; Opus twenty-nine by Sergei Vasilievich Rachmaninoff. One of the most masterful musicians in history, if you ask me. You know your music, Sam," he said, appraisingly.

Sam wasn't sure that he knew his music so much as he happened to know _this _music, but he was still faintly gratified to have shown some knowledge.

"I, uh, used to listen to classical music while I studied," he explained. "I haven't heard much of it in the past few years, though; mostly just the stuff Dean plays in the car, which is… not Rachmaninoff."

"Well, that will all have to change soon, won't it Sam?" Lucifer hit the accelerator hard and causing the car to leap forward with a growl.

Yes, Sam thought. Things would change, things would go back, as much as was possible, to how they'd been before Jess was gone, before Dad was killed and Dean was out, low and alone and in need of a brother. Lucifer was slotting everything back into place as he assembled this new life for Sam, these new opportunities, so effortlessly, as though all of it were nothing. He lay back in the seat of Lucifer's car and smiled to himself.

At this rate, it was going to be very hard to keep his guard up.


	9. Another Brick In the Wall

Sorry about the ridiculous wait. I'm a bad person. So is the guy who set my politics final exam.  
Chapter title after Pink Floyd, of course.

* * *

There were reasons, Dean remembered belatedly, why he didn't go around kissing people he was likely to run into again. Normally, it was kiss-first-and-ask-questions-later, followed up by every effort to make sure he wasn't around when later came. Those kinds of kisses and those kinds of nights weren't so much personal as they were a mutually beneficial arrangement to have a good time and then not have to talk about it later—an aspect of the typical one night stand which Dean particularly appreciated.

He had just arrived home and spoken with Sam when exactly what he'd done hit him: he'd kissed Cas.

_Kissed_ him.

Kissed_ him._

Surprisingly, the better part of the guilty panic he felt, solidifying heavy and smothering inside his chest, had nothing to do with the fact that Cas was a man. A lifetime of trying to drown the feelings he had, to weigh them down with his shame and disappointment, suddenly felt like it had been spent worrying about entirely the wrong issue—amongst the heady buzz of Cas pressed up against him, the fact that they were both men had deserved no conscious thought; rather, the sense that it felt right with Cas had overtaken him. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, an offer of comfort expressed in the most effective way. It had seemed to work, too; afterward, he and Cas had stayed huddled up on the couch for some time enveloped in a calm silence, their troubles somehow put out of their minds. Looking back Dean had no idea how they'd managed that; the calm had certainly worn off now, like pain medication subsiding and making him feel ragged.

He couldn't do it again. It was _Cas_; Dean was already more tangled up with the guy—who was still a virtual stranger, he reminded himself—than he ever liked to be with anyone; more reliant, more beholden. But he also couldn't leave it behind, now that it had happened. Even if he pretended forgetting was a possibility, he couldn't pick and choose Cas' memories for him, couldn't alter them silently with the sheer force of his denial. Couldn't take back this new thing he'd welded into their relationship without cracking them both.

Surprise surprise, Dean thought to himself. He'd broken yet another good thing.

As he sat alone in Cas' apartment the place felt more borrowed, more _stolen_, than ever. It was the hollowed-out heart of a different person, a Cas who'd been happier, and here he was squatting in it, all while toying with tacit promises he couldn't follow through on. He was good at that. He wished he were good at something else instead.

Dean stared at his phone; there was no word from Sam. He huddled on the couch and let the television add a backdrop of white noise to his thoughts. He boiled water and made two minute noodles just to have something to do, forcing them down even though he wasn't hungry because he wouldn't let himself waste them. Finally, after flipping the lights off in the empty apartment, he took a knife from the block in the kitchen, checked the alarm and bolts on the door, and the locks on the windows. Sliding back into bed, he laid the blade under the spare pillow beside him and didn't sleep.

Dean crawled out of bed when the clock hit six thirty and put on his most presentable button-down shirt. He'd promised Sam—even if Sam was busy being an idiot—that he'd go to meet this Michael guy. If Michael could help, Dean would let him. After all, was it really cowardice when there was a psycho with an axe keen to collect the other half of your fingernails? Was it really paranoia if you'd been promised a visit from him at any moment? This was the part where Dean knew he'd say _no_ if it were Sammy, but was inclined to punish himself with a _yes_ anyway. He climbed into the Impala and tried to cancel out that train of thought with Metallica.

The first guy he met upon setting foot in Sam's firm was a total dick.

"My name is Zachariah Novikov," said the balding man, piggy eyes bright with self-importance and a disdain for Dean which he made no effort to veil. "You may address me as _Doctor_ Novikov."

It took everything Dean had not to snort.

"So, uh," he said, managing by some miracle to slap on his poker face, "are you Michael and Lucifer's brother, then?"

"Cousin," Zachariah said, and if Dean wasn't wrong, he was a little bitter about that. He supposed it made some sense, given that he was the one showing Dean to the boss' office, rather than the one sitting in the chair. Evidently Zachariah saw his distance from the famous Novikov patriarch as responsible for that particular misfortune.

Dean followed the asshole through the office space, which was abuzz with the sounds of hurried typing, phones ringing and being answered, papers being shuffled and spat out by a copier. All the people wore suits, and expressions which were either stressed, smug or some combination of the two. Some looked up at Dean with vague disgust as he passed by. Others pointedly ignored him, which was somewhat preferable.

Michael himself seemed to be bored with Dean before he'd even been introduced. He was relatively tall, had light hair, sharp eyes and wore his grey suit like it was a knight's armor. Zachariah, smarmy bastard that he was, kept trying to make snide remarks about Dean's history—his time inside, of course, but also the string of jobs as a mechanic, bartender or shop assistant that he'd taken whenever he was given the opportunity. Michael, to his credit, didn't seem to give a damn. He didn't respond to Zachariah's babbling, instead nodding once in Dean's direction and pouring himself a glass of water from a crystal jug.

"—and I'm sure he'll have extra expertise in retrieving your coffee orders, thanks to his time at—" Zachariah was saying, but Michael, finished his drink and looking even more supremely disinterested than he had when he had begun it, held up a hand to cut off his cousin's speech.

"Thank you, Zachariah," he said dismissively.

Zachariah looked as though he wanted to protest, but after opening his mouth and closing it again, he turned on his heel and left Dean and Michael alone in Michael's office. Which, Dean kept thinking to himself, would make a nice enough_ house_ if someone stuck a bed in the corner.

"Water?" Michael offered eventually.

Dean shook his head, then realised the following moment how completely parched he was.

"So, Mr. Winchester," Michael folded his hands under his chin and stared straight at Dean. "You are not the only one of that name working here at present."

Dean nodded along.

"Working with family can be both a uniquely rewarding and trying experience; I am better qualified to appreciate that than most. I think, however, that your relationship with Sam remains closer than my own with Lucifer. It is therefore ideal that Sam is close to Lucifer, if you understand my meaning."

"You want me to spy on your brother through my brother." And wasn't that exactly what Dean had been expecting from the Novikovs.

Michael didn't bother feigning offense. "Think of it more as a system of accountability. After all, you are here thanks to some pulling of strings on Lucifer's part; it is only logical that Sam's wellbeing is, to some degree, dependent on myself."

The blandness with which Michael spoke made it difficult to pick out exactly what was and wasn't a threat, but Dean was going to go right ahead and assume the whole spiel had been.

"There is some photocopying I need done," Michael pointed in the direction of a stack of bloated lever arch folders. "You would have passed the copy machine on your way through. You may set up a chair by the desk beside it. That pile should all be duplicated by the end of the day, the duplicates filed identically. Try not to get in the way of the other employees."

"Yes sir." The orders were clear, precise, and Dean could take them that way; it was how his father had raised him, directing him in all the small, everyday things as though he was his drill sergeant. He was here to get work done, to do as he was told, and Michael seemed to be on the same page where that was concerned.

Dean spent the day tuned out to everything. He'd open a folder, take out a wad of papers. Slide them into the copier and press the right buttons. Pull them out, re-file them, file the new ones. Jot down the right numbers on divider tabs. Pay just enough attention to what the pages looked like to ensure he didn't confuse his printing with anyone else's. It was easy enough, so dull it numbed him like a dream and the time melted along in strange intervals.

He drove back to the apartment at the end of the day. Ate. Talked to Sam. Didn't talk to Cas—almost successfully pretended that no part of him was waiting pathetically for a call. Checked the locks. Slept alone.

The next day, he was scanning a pile of documents. The one after, he was boxing up old paperwork and labeling it for shredding or archiving. It was nine to five. It was boring as hell—but it wasn't hell itself, and Dean could sure appreciate the difference.

The haven of boredom lasted two weeks before collapsing.


End file.
